JO 


ti/ 


SPOON  RIVER 
ANTHOLOGY 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NKW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN   FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LIMITED 

LONDON   •    BOMBAY   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

[E  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  LTD. 


SPOON  RIVER 
ANTHOLOGY 

GdgarLeeMasters 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1919 


eserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1914  AND  1915, 
BY  WILLIAM  MARION  REEDY. 

COPYRIGHT,  1915  AND  1916, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 

up   and   electrotyped.     Published   April,   1915. 


NortoonU  tyrezs 

J.  8.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  C«. 
Norwood,  Maas.,  U.S.A. 


tof. 


7^ 

\ 


Uo 

MY  WIFE 


FOR  permission  to  reprint  the  "  Spoon  River 
Anthology"  in  book  form,  I  wish  to  thank  William 
Marion  Reedy,  the  editor  of  "  Reedy's  Mirror," 
where  it  appeared  from  week  to  week,  beginning 
with  May  29,  1914;  and  to  express  my  gratitude 
to  him  for  the  sympathetic  interest  which  he 
showed  in  the  work  from  the  beginning. 


CONTENTS 

A 

PACK 

ALTMAN,  HERMAN 232 

ARMSTRONG,  HANNAH 229 

ARNETT,  HAROLD 47 

ARNETT,  JUSTICE 53 

ATHEIST,  THE  VILLAGE 250 

ATHERTON,  Lucius 56 


BALLARD,  JOHN 251  v 

/BARKER,  AMANDA 9 

BARRETT,  PAULINE 90 

BARTLETT,  EZRA 121 

BATESON,  MARIE 236 

BEATTY,  TOM 155 

BEETHOVEN,  ISAIAH 266 

BENNETT,  HON.  HENRY 66 

BINDLE,  NICHOLAS 45 

BLISS,  MRS.  CHARLES 91 

BLOOD,  A.  D 69 

BLOYD,  WENDELL  P. 81 

BONE,  RICHARD 179 

BRANSON,  CAROLINE 218 

BROWN,  JIM 112 

ix 


PACK 

BROWN,  SARAH 34 

BROWNING,  ELIJAH 268 

BURKE,  ROBERT  SOUTHEY 70 

BURLESON,  JOHN  HORACE 77 

BUTLER,  ROY 156 


CABANIS,  FLOSSIE 36 

CABANIS,  JOHN 125 

CALHOUN,  GRANVILLE 187 

CALHOUN,  HENRY  C 188 

CAMPBELL,  CALVIN 205 

CARLISLE,  JEREMY 261 

CARMAN,  EUGENE .134 

CHENEY,  COLUMBUS 234 

CHICKEN,  IDA 110 

CHILDERS,  ELIZABETH 198 

CHURCH,  JOHN  M 85 

CHURCHILL,  ALFONSO 253 

CLAPP,  HOMER 57 

•J  CLARK,  NELLIE 62 

CLUTE,  ANER 55 

COMPTON,  SETH 176 

CONANT,  EDITH 200 

CULBERTSON,  E.  C .  183 


DAVIDSON,  ROBERT 113 

DEMENT,  SILAS 180 

X 


PAGtt 

DIPPOLD  THE  OPTICIAN 191 

DIXON,  JOSEPH 262 

DOBYNS,  BATTERTON 152 

DRUMMER,  FRANK 29 

DRUMMER,  HARE 30 

DUNLAP,  ENOCH 174 

DYE,  SHACK 184 


EHRENHARDT,  IMANUEL 240 

EPILOGUE 287 


FALLAS,  STATE'S  ATTORNEY 80 

FAWCETT,  CLARENCE 135 

FERGUSON,  WALLACE 235 

FINDLAY,  ANTHONY 124 

FLUKE,  WILLARD 54 

FOOTE,  SEARCY 157 

FORD,  WEBSTER 270 

FRASER,  BENJAMIN 21 

FRASER,  DAISY 20 

FRENCH,  CHARLIE 39 

FRICKEY,  IDA 175 


CAREER,  JAMES 255 

GARDNER,  SAMUEL 241 


PAGE 
122 

GARRICK,  AMELIA       . 

GODBEY,  JACOB 

GOLDMAN,  LE  ROY 

244 
GOODE,  WILLIAM 

GOODHUE,  HARRY  CAREY 

GOODPASTURE,  JACOB 

193 
GRAHAM,  MAGRADY    .... 

GRAY,  GEORGE 

GREEN,  AMI 204 

GREENE,  HAMILTON 

GRIFFY  THE  COOPER 

GUSTINE,  DORCAS 

H 

HAINSFEATHER,  BARNEY 88 

HAMBLIN,  CARL 

HATELY,  CONSTANCE 

HATFIELD,  AARON •  265 

HAWKINS,  ELLIOTT 17° 

HAWLEY,  JEDUTHAN 166 

HENRY,  CHASE 

HERNDON,  WILLIAM  H 224 

HESTON,  ROGER 117 

HIGBIE,  ARCHIBALD 194 

HILL,  Doc 32 

HILL,  THE 1 

HOHEIMER,  KNOWLT 27 

HOLDEN,  BARRY 79 

HOOKEY,  SAM 59 

xii 


HOUGHTON,  JONATHAN       

PACK 

.    182 

HOWARD,  JEFFERSON  

.      96 

HUEFFER,    CASSIUS         

7 

HUMMEL,  OSCAR         

.    141 

HUMPHREY,  LYDIA     

.    256 
.    247 

HUTCHINS,  LAMBERT  

.    149 

HYDE,  ERNEST    

.     116 

I 

ISEMAN,   DR.   SlEGRFIED       

.      50 

JACK,  BLIND        

.      76 

JAMES,  GODWIN  

.    215 

JOE,  PLYMOUTH  ROCK        

.    238 

JOHNSON,  VOLTAIRE    

.     172 

JONES,  FIDDLER  

.      61 

JONES,  FRANKLIN        

.      84 

JONES,  INDIGNATION   

.      23 

JONES,  MINERVA          

.      22 

JONES,  WILLIAM  

.    243 

JUDGE,  THE  CIRCUIT  

.      75 

K 

KARR,  ELMER      

.    197 

KEENE,  JONAS      

.      99 

.    148 

xiii 

PAGE 

KESSLER,  MRS 145 

KILLION,  CAPTAIN  ORLANDO 260 

KINCAID,  RUSSELL 264 

KING,  LYMAN 217 

KEENE,  KINSEY 14 

KNAPP,  NANCY 78 

KONOVALOFF,  IPPOLIT 208 

KJUTT,  Dow 242 

L 

LAYTON,  HENRY 206 

LIVELY,  JUDGE  SELAH 97 

M 

M'CUMBER,  DANIEL 106 

MCDOWELL,  RUTHERFORD 228 

MCFARLANE,  WIDOW 129 

McGEE,  FLETCHER 5 

McGEE,  OLLIE 4 

M'GREW,  JENNIE 233 

M'GREW,  MICKEY 139 

McGuiRE,  JACK 43 

J  MCNEELY,  MARY 105 

McNEELY,  PAUL  .        .        . 104 

MCNEELY,  WASHINGTON 102 

MALLOY,  FATHER 203 

MARSH,  ZILPHA 254 

MARSHAL,  THE  TOWN 42 

MARSHALL,  HERBERT 64 

xiv 


MASON,  SEREPTA         

8 

MATHENY,  FAITH        

.     246 

231 

MATLOCK,  LUCINDA    

.     230 

MELVENY,  ABEL  

.     167 

MERRITT,  MRS  

.     196 

MERRITT,  TOM    

.     195 

METCALF,  WILLIE       

.    248 

MEYERS,  DOCTOR         

.      24 

MEYERS,  MRS  

.      25 

MICURE,  HAMLET        

.    221 

1  MILES,  J.  MILTON       
^MILLER,  JULIA     

.    245 
.      37 

MINER,  GEORGINE  SAND     

.     107 

MOIR,  ALFRED     

.     189 

N 

NEWCOMER,  PROFESSOR       

.     137 

NIGHT-WATCH,  ANDY  THE         

.      33 

NUTTER,  ISA        

.      87 

0 

OSBORNE,  MABEL         

.    223 

OTIS,  JOHN  HANCOCK         

.     123 

P 

15 

PANTIER,  MRS.  BENJAMIN  ...... 

.      16 

PAGE 

PANTIER,  REUBEN 17  * 

PEET,  REV.  ABNER 95 

PENNINGTON,  WILLIE 249 

PENNIWIT,  THE  ARTIST Ill 

PETIT,  THE  POET 89 

PHIPPS,  HENRY 209 

POAGUE,  PELEG 165 

POLLARD,  EDMUND 159 

POTTER,  COONEY 60 

1VPucKETT,  LYDIA 28 

PURKAPILE,  MRS 143 

PURKAPILE,  ROSCOE 142 

PUTT,  HOD 3 


REECE,  MRS.  GEORGE 92 

RHODES,  RALPH 138 

RHODES,  THOMAS 109 

RICHTER,  GUSTAV 258 

ROBBINS,    HORTENSE 151 

ROBERTS,  ROSIE 140 

Ross,  THOMAS,  JR 94 

RUSSIAN  SONIA 86 

RUTLEDGE,  ANNE        .        .                                                .  220 


SAYRE,  JOHNNIE 38 

SCATES,  HIRAM 163 

SCHIRDING,  ALBERT    .  98 


SCHMIDT,  FELIX 177 

SCHRCEDER  THE   FISHERMAN 178 

SCOTT,  JULIAN 252 

SERSMITH  THE  DENTIST 68 

SEWALL,  HARLAN 207 

SHARP,  PERCIVAL 161 

SHAW,  "ACE" 51 

SHELLEY,  PERCY  BYSSHE    .......  35 

SHOPE,  TENNESSEE  CLAFLIN 237 

SIBLEY,  AMOS 118 

SIBLEY,  MRS 119 

SIEVER,  CONRAD 31 

SIMMONS,  WALTER 154 

SlSSMAN,    DlLLARD 181 

SLACK,  MARGARET  FULLER 48 

SMITH,  LOUISE 63 

SOLDIERS,  MANY 214 

SOMERS,  JONATHAN  SWIFT 128  . 

SOMERS,  JUDGE "  .        .        .        .13 

SPARKS,  EMILY 18 

SPEARS,  Lois 52 

SPOONIAD,  THE 273 

STANDARD,  W.  LLOYD  GARRISON 136 

STEWART,  LILLIAN 150 

STODDARD,  JUDSON 263 

T 

TANNER,  ROBERT  FULTON 6 

TAYLOR,  DEACON 58 

xvii 


THEODORE  THE  POET 41 

THORNTON,  ENGLISH •    .        .        .173 

THROCKMORTON,  ALEXANDER 127 

TODD,  EUGENIA  . 100 

TOMPKINS,  JOSIAH 144 

TRAINOR,  THE  DRUGGIST 19 

TRKVELYAN,  THOMAS 160 

TRIMBLE,  GEORGE 49 

TRIPP,  HENRY 186 

TUBES,  HILDRUP 185 

TURNER,  FRANCIS 83 

TUTT,  OAKS .168 

U 

UNKNOWN,  THE 126 

W 

WASSON,  JOHN 213 

WASSON,  REBECCA 226 

WEBSTER,  CHARLES 202 

WEIRAUCH,  ADAM 120 

WELDY,  BUTCH 26 

WERTMAN,  ELSA 114 

WHEDON,  EDITOR 132 

WHITNEY,  HARMON 146 

WILEY,  REV.  LEMUEL 93 

WILL,  ARLO 259 

WILLIAM  AND  EMILY 74 

WILLIAMS,  DORA .71 

xviii 


PAGE 

WILLIAMS,  MRS. 72 

WILMANS,  HARRY 211 

WITT,  ZENAS 40 


YEE  Bow 101 


ZOLL,  PERRY 190 


SPOON  RIVER  ANTHOLOGY 


WHERE  are  Elmer,  Herman,  Bert,  Tom  and  Charley, 
The  weak  of  will,  the  strong  of  arm,  the  clown,  the 

boozer,  the  fighter  ? 
All,  all,  are  sleeping  on  the  hill. 

One  passed  in  a  fever, 

One  was  burned  in  a  mine, 

One  was  killed  in  a  brawl, 

One  died  in  a  jail, 

One  fell  from  a  bridge  toiling  for  children  and  wife  — 

All,  all  are  sleeping,  sleeping,  sleeping  on  the  hill. 

Where  are  Ella,  Kate,  Mag,  Lizzie  and  Edith, 

The  tender  heart,  the  simple  soul,  the  loud,  the  proud, 

the  happy  one  ?  — 
All,  all,  are  sleeping  on  the  hill. 

One  died  in  shameful  child-birth, 
One  of  a  thwarted  love, 

i 


One  at  the  hands  of  a  brute  in  a  brothel, 

One  of  a  broken  pride,  in  the  search  for  heart's  desiret 

One  after  life  in  far-away  London  and  Paris 

Was  brought  to  her  little  space  by  Ella  and  Kate  and 

Mag  — 
All,  all  are  sleeping,  sleeping,  sleeping  on  the  hill. 

Where  are  Uncle  Isaac  and  Aunt  Emily >, 
And  old  Towny  Kincaid  and  Sevigne  Houghton, 
And  Major  Walker  who  had  talked 
With  venerable  men  of  the  revolution  ?  — 
All,  all,  are  sleeping  on  the  hill. 

They  brought  them  dead  sons  from  the  wary 

And  daughters  whom  life  had  crushed, 

And  their  children  fatherless,  crying  — 

All,  all  are  sleeping,  sleeping,  sleeping  on  the  hill. 

Where  is  Old  Fiddler  Jones 

Who  played  with  life  all  his  ninety  years, 

Braving  the  sleet  with  bared  breast, 

Drinking,  rioting,  thinking  neither  of  wife  nor  kin, 

Nor  gold,  nor  love,  nor  heaven  ? 

Lo  !  he  babbles  of  the  fish-frys  of  long  ago, 

Of  the  horse-races  of  long  ago  at  Clary's  Grove, 

Of  what  Abe  Lincoln  said 

One  time  at  Springfield. 


IJDtttt 

HERE  I  lie  close  to  the  grave 

OfOldBillPiersol, 

Who  grew  rich  trading  with  the  Indians,  and  who 

Afterwards  took  the  bankrupt  law 

And  emerged  from  it  richer  than  ever. 

Myself  grown  tired  of  toil  and  poverty 

And   beholding  how  Old   Bill   and  others  grew  in 

wealth, 

Robbed  a  traveler  one  night  near  Proctor's  Grove, 
Killing  him  unwittingly  while  doing  so, 
For  the  which  I  was  tried  and  hanged. 
That  was  my  way  of  going  into  bankruptcy. 
Now  we  who  took  the  bankrupt  law  in  our  respective 

ways 
Sleep  peacefully  side  by  side. 


HAVE  you  seen  walking  through  the  village 
A  man  with  downcast  eyes  and  haggard  face  ? 
That  is  my  husband  who,  by  secret  cruelty 
Never  to  be  told,  robbed  me  of  my  youth  and  my 

beauty; 

Till  at  last,  wrinkled  and  with  yellow  teeth, 
And  with  broken  pride  and  shameful  humility, 
I  sank  into  the  grave. 

But  what  think  you  gnaws  at  my  husband's  heart  ? 
The  face  of  what  I  was,  the  face  of  what  he  made  me ! 
These  are  driving  him  to  the  place  where  I  lie. 
In  death,  therefore,  I  am  avenged. 


jfietcijer 

SHE  took  my  strength  by  minutes, 

She  took  my  life  by  hours, 

She  drained  me  like  a  fevered  moon 

That  saps  the  spinning  world. 

The  days  went  by  like  shadows, 

The  minutes  wheeled  like  stars. 

She  took  the  pity  from  my  heart, 

And  made  it  into  smiles. 

She  was  a  hunk  of  sculptor's  clay, 

My  secret  thoughts  were  fingers  : 

They  flew  behind  her  pensive  brow 

And  lined  it  deep  with  pain. 

They  set  the  lips,  and  sagged  the  cheeks, 

And  drooped  the  eyes  with  sorrow. 

My  soul  had  entered  in  the  clay, 

Fighting  like  seven  devils. 

It  was  not  mine,  it  was  not  hers ; 

She  held  it,  but  its  struggles 

Modeled  a  face  she  hated, 

And  a  face  I  feared  to  see. 

I  beat  the  windows,  shook  the  bolts. 

I  hid  me  in  a  corner  — 

And  then  she  died  and  haunted  me, 

And  hunted  me  for  life. 


Robert  jhilton  banner 

IF  a.  man  could  bite  the  giant  hand 

That  catches  and  destroys  him, 

As  I  was  bitten  by  a  rat 

While  demonstrating  my  patent  trap, 

In  my  hardware  store  that  day. 

But  a  man  can  never  avenge  himself 

On  the  monstrous  ogre  Life. 

You  enter  the  room  —  that's  being  born ; 

And  then  you  must  live  —  work  out  your  soul, 

Aha !  the  bait  that  you  crave  is  in  view : 

A  woman  with  money  you  want  to  marry, 

Prestige,  place,  or  power  in  the  world. 

But  there's  work  to  do  and  things  to  conquer  — 

Oh,  yes  !  the  wires  that  screen  the  bait. 

At  last  you  get  in  —  but  you  hear  a  step  : 

The  ogre,  Life,  comes  into  the  room, 

(He  was  waiting  and  heard  the  clang  of  the  spring) 

To  watch  you  nibble  the  wondrous  cheese, 

And  stare  with  his  burning  eyes  at  you, 

And  scowl  and  laugh,  and  mock  and  curse  you, 

Running  up  and  down  in  the  trap, 

Until  your  misery  bores  him. 

6 


Caseins'  tnirffcr 

THEY  have  chiseled  on  my  stone  the  words : 

"His  life  was  gentle,  and  the  elements  so  mixed  in 

him 

That  nature  might  stand  up  and  say  to  all  the  world, 
This  was  a  man." 
Those  who  knew  me  smile 
As  they  read  this  empty  rhetoric. 

My  epitaph  should  have  been : 

"Life  was  not  gentle  to  him, 

And  the  elements  so  mixed  in  him 

That  he  made  warfare  on  life, 

In  the  which  he  was  slain." 

While  I   lived   I   could   not   cope  with   slanderous 

tongues, 

Now  that  I  am  dead  I  must  submit  to  an  epitaph 
Graven  by  a  fool ! 


MY  life's  blossom  might  have  bloomed  on  all  sides 

Save  for  a  bitter  wind  which  stunted  my  petals 

On  the  side  of  me  which  you  in  the  village  could  see. 

From  the  dust  I  lift  a  voice  of  protest : 

My  flowering  side  you  never  saw ! 

Ye  living  ones,  ye  are  fools  indeed 

Who  do  not  know  the  ways  of  the  wind 

And  the  unseen  forces 

That  govern  the  processes  of  life. 


gmantm  !3arUrr 

HENRY  got  me  with  child, 

Knowing  that  I  could  not  bring  forth  life 

Without  losing  my  own. 

In  my  youth  therefore  I  entered  the  portals  of  dust. 

Traveler,  it  is  believed  in  the  village  where  I  lived 

That  Henry  loved  me  with  a  husband's  love, 

But  I  proclaim  from  the  dust 

That  he  slew  me  to  gratify  his  hatred. 


Constance  S?atel)? 

You  praise  my  self-sacrifice,  Spoon  River, 

In  rearing  Irene  and  Mary, 

Orphans  of  my  older  sister ! 

And  you  censure  Irene  and  Mary 

For  their  contempt  for  me ! 

But  praise  not  my  self-sacrifice, 

And  censure  not  their  contempt ; 

I  reared  them,  I  cared  for  them,  true  enough ! 

But  I  poisoned  my  benefactions 

With  constant  reminders  of  their  dependence. 


10 


IN  life  I  was  the  town  drunkard ; 

When  I  died  the  priest  denied  me  burial 

In  holy  ground. 

The  which  redounded  to  my  good  fortune. 

For  the  Protestants  bought  this  lot, 

And  buried  my  body  here, 

Close  to  the  grave  of  the  banker  Nicholas, 

And  of  his  wife  Priscilla. 

Take  note,  ye  prudent  and  pious  souls, 

Of  the  cross-currents  in  life 

Which  bring  honor  to  the  dead,  who  lived  in  shame. 


ii 


Carep 

You  never  marveled,  dullards  of  Spoon  River, 

When  Chase  Henry  voted  against  the  saloons 

To  revenge  himself  for  being  shut  off. 

But  none  of  you  was  keen  enough 

To  follow  my  steps,  or  trace  me  home 

As  Chase's  spiritual  brother. 

Do  you  remember  when  I  fought 

The  bank  and  the  courthouse  ring, 

For  pocketing  the  interest  on  public  funds  ? 

And  when  I  fought  our  leading  citizens 

For  making  the  poor  the  pack-horses  of  the  taxes  ? 

And  when  I  fought  the  water  works 

For  stealing  streets  and  raising  rates  ? 

And  when  I  fought  the  business  men 

Who  fought  me  in  these  fights  ? 

Then  do  you  remember : 

That  staggering  up  from  the  wreck  of  defeat, 

And  the  wreck  of  a  ruined  career, 

I  slipped  from  my  cloak  my  last  ideal, 

Hidden  from  all  eyes  until  then, 

Like  the  cherished  jawbone  of  an  ass, 

And  smote  the  bank  and  the  water  works, 

And  the  business  men  with  prohibition, 

And  made  Spoon  River  pay  the  cost 

Of  the  fights  that  I  had  lost. 

12 


How  does  it  happen,  tell  me, 

That  I  who  was  most  erudite  of  lawyers, 

Who  knew  Blackstone  and  Coke 

Almost  by  heart,  who  made  the  greatest  speech 

The  court-house  ever  heard,  and  wrote 

A  brief  that  won  the  praise  of  Justice  Breese  — 

How  does  it  happen,  tell  me, 

That  I  lie  here  unmarked,  forgotten, 

While  Chase  Henry,  the  town  drunkard, 

Has  a  marble  block,  topped  by  an  urn, 

Wherein  Nature,  in  a  mood  ironical, 

Has  sown  a  flowering  weed  ? 


fceene 

YOUR  attention,  Thomas  Rhodes,  president  of  the 

bank; 

Coolbaugh  Whedon,  editor  of  the  Argus ; 
Rev.  Peet,  pastor  of  the  leading  church ; 
A.  D.  Blood,  several  times  Mayor  of  Spoon  River ; 
And  finally  all  of  you,  members  of  the  Social  Purity 

Club- 

Your  attention  to  Cambronne's  dying  words, 
Standing  with  the  heroic  remnant 
Of  Napoleon's  guard  on  Mount  Saint  Jean 
At  the  battle  field  of  Waterloo, 
When  Maitland,  the  Englishman,  called  to  them  : 
"Surrender,  brave  Frenchmen  !"  — 
There  at  close  of  day  with  the  battle  hopelessly  lost, 
And  hordes  of  men  no  longer  the  army 
Of  the  great  Napoleon 
Streamed  from  the  field  like  ragged  strips 
Of  thunder  clouds  in  the  storm. 
Well,  what  Cambronne  said  to  Maitland 
Ere  the  English  fire  made  smooth  the  brow  of  the  hill 
Against  the  sinking  light  of  day 
Say  I  to  you,  and  all  of  you, 
And  to  you,  O  world. 
And  I  charge  you  to  carve  it 
Upon  my  stone. 


HBenfamin 

TOGETHER    in    this    grave    lie    Benjamin    Pantier, 

attorney  at  law, 
And  Nig,  his  dog,  constant  companion,  solace  and 

friend. 
Down  the  gray  road,  friends,  children,  men  and 

women, 

Passing  one  by  one  out  of  life,  left  me  till  I  was  alone 
With  Nig  for  partner,  bed-fellow,  comrade  in  drink. 
In  the  morning  of  life  I  knew  aspiration  and  saw 

glory. 

Then  she,  who  survives  me,  snared  my  soul 
With  a  snare  which  bled  me  to  death, 
Till  I,  once  strong  of  will,  lay  broken,  indifferent, 
Living  with  Nig  in  a  room  back  of  a  dingy  office. 
Under  my  jaw-bone  is  snuggled  the  bony  nose  of 

Nig- 
Our  story  is  lost  in  silence.     Go  by,  mad  world ! 


u  HBenfamin  }|0antter 

I  KNOW  that  he  told  that  I  snared  his  soul 

With  a  snare  which  bled  him  to  death. 

And  all  the  men  loved  him, 

And  most  of  the  women  pitied  him. 

But  suppose  you  are  really  a  lady,  and  have  delicate 

tastes, 

And  loathe  the  smell  of  whiskey  and  onions. 
And  the  rhythm  of  Wordsworth's  "Ode"  runs  in 

your  ears, 

While  he  goes  about  from  morning  till  night 
Repeating  bits  of  that  common  thing ; 
"Oh,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ?" 
And  then,  suppose : 
You  are  a  woman  well  endowed, 
And  the  only  man  with  whom  the  law  and  morality 
Permit  you  to  have  the  marital  relation 
Is  the  very  man  that  fills  you  with  disgust 
Every  time  you  think  of  it  —  while  you  think  of  it 
Every  time  you  see  him  ? 
That's  why  I  drove  him  away  from  home 
To  live  with  his  dog  in  a  dingy  room 
Back  of  his  office. 

16 


Heuben  JjOantier 

WELL,  Emily  Sparks,  your  prayers  were  not  wasted, 

Your  love  was  not  all  in  vain. 

I  owe  whatever  I  was  in  life 

To  your  hope  that  would  not  give  me  up, 

To  your  love  that  saw  me  still  as  good. 

Dear  Emily  Sparks,  let  me  tell  you  the  story. 

I  pass  the  effect  of  my  father  and  mother ; 

The  milliner's  daughter  made  me  trouble 

And  out  I  went  in  the  world, 

Where  I  passed  through  every  peril  known 

Of  wine  and  women  and  joy  of  life. 

One  night,  in  a  room  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli, 

I  was  drinking  wine  with  a  black-eyed  cocotte, 

And  the  tears  swam  into  my  eyes. 

She  thought  they  were  amorous  tears  and  smiled 

For  thought  of  her  conquest  over  me. 

But  my  soul  was  three  thousand  miles  away, 

In  the  days  when  you  taught  me  in  Spoon  River. 

And  just  because  you  no  more  could  love  me, 

Nor  pray  for  me,  nor  write  me  letters, 

The  eternal  silence  of  you  spoke  instead. 

And  the  black-eyed  cocotte  took  the  tears  for  hers, 

As  well  as  the  deceiving  kisses  I  gave  her. 

Somehow,  from  that  hour,  I  had  a  new  vision  — 

Dear  Emily  Sparks ! 

17 


CBmilv 

WHERE  is  my  boy,  my  boy  — 

In  what  far  part  of  the  world  ? 

The  boy  I  loved  best  of  all  in  the  school  ?  — 

I,  the  teacher,  the  old  maid,  the  virgin  heart, 

Who  made  them  all  my  children. 

Did  I  know  my  boy  aright, 

Thinking  of  him  as  spirit  aflame, 

Active,  ever  aspiring  ? 

Oh,  boy,  boy,  for  whom  I  prayed  and  prayed 

In  many  a  watchful  hour  at  night, 

Do  you  remember  the  letter  I  wrote  you 

Of  the  beautiful  love  of  Christ  ? 

And  whether  you  ever  took  it  or  not, 

My  boy,  wherever  you  are, 

Work  for  your  soul's  sake, 

That  all  the  clay  of  you,  all  of  the  dross  of  you, 

May  yield  to  the  fire  of  you, 

Till  the  fire  is  nothing  but  light !  .  .  . 

Nothing  but  light ! 


18 


Crainor,  ttje  Druggist 

ONLY  the   chemist   can   tell,   and   not   always   the 

chemist, 

What  will  result  from  compounding 
Fluids  or  solids. 
And  who  can  tell 

How  men  and  women  will  interact 
On  each  other,  or  what  children  will  result  ? 
There  were  Benjamin  Pantier  and  his  wife, 
Good  in  themselves,  but  evil  toward  each  other : 
He  oxygen,  she  hydrogen, 
Their  son,  a  devastating  fire. 
I  Trainor,  the  druggist,  a  mixer  of  chemicals, 
Killed  while  making  an  experiment, 
Lived  unwedded. 


jfratfer 

DID  you  ever  hear  of  Editor  Whedon 

Giving  to  the  public  treasury  any  of  the  money  he 

received 

For  supporting  candidates  for  office  ? 
Or  for  writing  up  the  canning  factory 
To  get  people  to  invest  ? 
Or  for  suppressing  the  facts  about  the  bank, 
When  it  was  rotten  and  ready  to  break  ? 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  Circuit  Judge 
Helping  anyone  except  the  "Q"  railroad, 
Or  the  bankers  ?    Or  did  Rev.  Peet  or  Rev.  Sibley 
Give  any  part  of  their  salary,  earned  by  keeping  still, 
Or  speaking  out  as  the  leaders  wished  them  to  do, 
To  the  building  of  the  water  works  ? 
But  I  —  Daisy  Fraser  who  always  passed 
Along  the  streets  through  rows  of  nods  and  smiles, 
And  coughs  and  words  such  as  "there  she  goes," 
Never  was  taken  before  Justice  Arnett 
Without  contributing  ten  dollars  and  costs 
To  the  school  fund  of  Spoon  River ! 


20 


Benfamin 

THEIR  spirits  beat  upon  mine 

Like  the  wings  of  a  thousand  butterflies. 

I  closed  my  eyes  and  felt  their  spirits  vibrating. 

I  closed  my  eyes,  yet  I  knew  when  their  lashes 

Fringed  their  cheeks  from  downcast  eyes, 

And  when  they  turned  their  heads ; 

And  when  their  garments  clung  to  them, 

Or  fell  from  them,  in  exquisite  draperies. 

Their  spirits  watched  my  ecstasy 

With  wide  looks  of  starry  unconcern. 

Their  spirits  looked  upon  my  torture ; 

They  drank  it  as  it  were  the  water  of  life; 

With  reddened  cheeks,  brightened  eyes 

The  rising  flame  of  my  soul  made  their  spirits  gilt, 

Like  the  wings  of  a  butterfly  drifting  suddenly  into 

sunlight. 

And  they  cried  to  me  for  life,  life,  life. 
But  in  taking  life  for  myself, 
In  seizing  and  crushing  their  souls, 
As  a  child  crushes  grapes  and  drinks 
From  its  palms  the  purple  juice, 
I  came  to  this  wingless  void, 
Where  neither  red,  nor  gold,  nor  wine, 
Nor  the  rhythm  of  life  is  known. 
21 


I  AM  Minerva,  the  village  poetess, 

Hooted  at,  jeered  at  by  the  Yahoos  of  the  street 

For  my  heavy  body,  cock-eye,  and  rolling  walk,! 

AnT  all  the  more  wherr^utcTi^  Weldy~ 

Captured  me  after  a  brutal  hunt. 

He  left  me  to  my  fate  with  Doctor  Meyers ; 

And  I  sank  into  death,  growing  numb  from  the  feet 

up, 
Like  one  stepping  deeper  and  deeper  into  a  stream  of 

ice. 

Will  some  one  go  to  the  village  newspaper, 
And  gather  into  a  book  the  verses  I  wrote  ?  — 
I  thirsted  so  for  love! 
I  hungered  so  for  life ! 


"  2fltt&fgnatton  " 

You  would  not  believe,  would  you, 

That  I  came  from  good  Welsh  stock  ? 

That  I  was  purer  blooded  than  the  white  trash  here  ? 

And  of  more  direct  lineage  than  the  New  Englanders 

And  Virginians  of  Spoon  River  ? 

You  would  not  believe  that  I  had  been  to  school 

And  read  some  books. 

You  saw  me  only  as  a  run-down  man, 

With  matted  hair  and  beard 

And  ragged  clothes. 

Sometimes  a  man's  life  turns  into  a  cancer 

From  being  bruised  and  continually  bruised, 

And  swells  into  a  purplish  mass, 

Like  growths  on  stalks  of  corn. 

Here  was  I,  a  carpenter,  mired  in  a  bog  of  life 

Into  which  I  walked,  thinking  it  was  a  meadow, 

With  a  slattern  for  a  wife,  and  poor  Minerva,  my 

daughter, 

Whom  you  tormented  and  drove  to  death. 
So  I  crept,  crept,  like  a  snail  through  the  days 
Of  my  life. 

No  more  you  hear  my  footsteps  in  the  morning, 
Resounding  on  the  hollow  sidewalk, 
Going  to  the  grocery  store  for  a  little  corn  meal 
And  a  nickel's  worth  of  bacon. 
23 


EDoctor 

No  other  man,  unless  it  was  Doc  Hill, 

Did  more  for  people  in  this  town  than  I. 

And  all  the  weak,  the  halt,  the  improvident 

And  those  who  could  not  pay  flocked  to  me. 

I  was  good-hearted,  easy  Doctor  Meyers. 

I  was  healthy,  happy,  in  comfortable  fortune, 

Blessed  with  a  congenial  mate,  my  children  raised, 

All  wedded,  doing  well  in  the  world. 

And  then  one  night,  Minerva,  the  poetess, 

Came  to  me  in  her  trouble,  crying. 

I  tried  to  help  her  out  —  she  died  — 

They  indicted  me,  the  newspapers  disgraced  me, 

My  wife  perished  of  a  broken  heart. 

And  pneumonia  finished  me. 


HE  protested  all  his  life  long 

The  newspapers  lied  about  him  villainously ; 

That  he  was  not  at  fault  for  Minerva's  fall, 

But  only  tried  to  help  her. 

Poor  soul  so  sunk  in  sin  he  could  not  see 

That  even  trying  to  help  her,  as  he  called  it, 

He  had  broken  the  law  human  and  divine. 

Passers  by,  an  ancient  admonition  to  you : 

If  your  ways  would  be  ways  of  pleasantness, 

And  all  your  pathways  peace, 

Love  God  and  keep  his  commandments. 


AFTER  I  got  religion  and  steadied  down 

They  gave  me  a  job  in  the  canning  works, 

And  every  morning  I  had  to  fill 

The  tank  in  the  yard  with  gasoline, 

That  fed  the  blow-fires  in  the  sheds 

To  heat  the  soldering  irons. 

And  I  mounted  a  rickety  ladder  to  do  it, 

Carrying  buckets  full  of  the  stuff. 

One  morning,  as  I  stood  there  pouring, 

The  air  grew  still  and  seemed  to  heave, 

And  I  shot  up  as  the  tank  exploded, 

And  down  I  came  with  both  legs  broken, 

And  my  eyes  burned  crisp  as  a  couple  of  eggs. 

For  someone  left  a  blow-fire  going, 

And  something  sucked  the  flame  in  the  tank. 

The  Circuit  Judge  said  whoever  did  it 

Was  a  fellow-servant  of  mine,  and  so 

Old  Rhodes'  son  didn't  have  to  pay  me. 

And  I  sat  on  the  witness  stand  as  blind 

As  Jack  the  Fiddler,  saying  over  and  over, 

"I  didn't  know  him  at  all." 


26 


ftnotolt 

I  WAS  the  first  fruits  of  the  battle  of  Missionary 

Ridge. 

When  I  felt  the  bullet  enter  my  heart 
I  wished  I  had  staid  at  home  and  gone  to  jail 
For  stealing  the  hogs  of  Curl  Trenary, 
Instead  of  running  away  and  joining  the  army. 
Rather  a  thousand  times  the  county  jail 
Than  to  lie  under  this  marble  figure  with  wings, 
And  this  granite  pedestal 
Bearing  the  words,  "Pro  Patria." 
What  do  they  mean,  anyway  ? 


27 


LvDia 

KNOWLT  HOHEIMER  ran  away  to  the  war 

The  day  before  Curl  Trenary 

Swore  out  a  warrant  through  Justice  Arnett 

For  stealing  hogs. 

But  that's  not  the  reason  he  turned  a  soldier. 

He  caught  me  running  with  Lucius  Atherton. 

We  quarreled  and  I  told  him  never  again 

To  cross  my  path. 

Then  he  stole  the  hogs  and  went  to  the  war  - 

Back  of  every  soldier  is  a  woman. 


28 


jpranft  ©rummer 

OUT  of  a  cell  into  this  darkened  space  — 

The  end  at  twenty-five ! 

My  tongue  could  not  speak  what  stirred  within  me, 

And  the  village  thought  me  a  fool. 

Yet  at  the  start  there  was  a  clear  vision, 

A  high  and  urgent  purpose  in  my  soul 

Which  drove  me  on  trying  to  memorize 

The  Encyclopaedia  Britannica  1 


29 


Drummer 

Do  the  boys  and  girls  still  go  to  Siever's 

For  cider,  after  school,  in  late  September  ? 

Or  gather  hazel  nuts  among  the  thickets 

On  Aaron  Hatfield's  farm  when  the  frosts  begin  ? 

For  many  times  with  the  laughing  girls  and  boys 

Played  I  along  the  road  and  over  the  hills 

When  the  sun  was  low  and  the  air  was  cool, 

Stopping  to  club  the  walnut  tree 

Standing  leafless  against  a  flaming  west. 

Now,  the  smell  of  the  autumn  smoke, 

And  the  dropping  acorns, 

And  the  echoes  about  the  vales 

Bring  dreams  of  life.     They  hover  over  me. 

They  question  me  : 

Where  are  those  laughing  comrades  ? 

How  many  are  with  me,  how  many 

In  the  old  orchards  along  the  way  to  Siever's, 

And  in  the  woods  that  overlook 

The  quiet  water  ? 


^ 


JU 


Conraa 

NOT  in  that  wasted  garden 

Where  bodies  are  drawn  into  grass 

That  feeds  no  flocks,  and  into  evergreens 

That  bear  no  fruit  — 

There  where  along  the  shaded  walks 

Vain  sighs  are  heard, 

And  vainer  dreams  are  dreamed 

Of  close  communion  with  departed  souls  — 

But  here  under  the  apple  tree 

I  loved  and  watched  and  pruned 

With  gnarled  hands 

In  the  long,  long  years ; 

Here  under  the  roots  of  this  northern-spy 

To  move  in  the  chemic  change  and  circle  of  life, 

Into  the  soil  and  into  the  flesh  of  the  tree, 

And  into  the  living  epitaphs 

Of  redder  apples ! 


I  WENT  up  and  down  the  streets 

Here  and  there  by  day  and  night, 

Through  all  hours  of  the  night  caring  for  the  poor 

who  were  sick. 
Do  you  know  why  ? 

My  wife  hated  me,  my  son  went  to  the  dogs. 
And  I  turned  to  the  people  and  poured  out  my  love 

to  them. 
Sweet  it  was  to  see  the  crowds  about  the  lawns  on 

the  day  of  my  funeral, 

And  hear  them  murmur  their  love  and  sorrow. 
But  oh,  dear  God,  my  soul  trembled  —  scarcely  able 
To  hold  to  the  railing  of  the  new  life 
When  I  saw  Em  Stanton  behind  the  oak  tree 
At  the  grave, 
Hiding  herself,  and  her  grief  1 


IN  my  Spanish  cloak, 

And  old  slouch  hat, 

And  overshoes  of  felt, 

And  Tyke,  my  faithful  dog, 

And  my  knotted  hickory  cane, 

I  slipped  about  with  a  bull's-eye  lantern 

From  door  to  door  on  the  square, 

As  the  midnight  stars  wheeled  round, 

And  the  bell  in  the  steeple  murmured 

From  the  blowing  of  the  wind ; 

And  the  weary  steps  of  old  Doc  Hill 

Sounded  like  one  who  walks  in  sleep, 

And  a  far-off  rooster  crew. 

And  now  another  is  watching  Spoon  River 

As  others  watched  before  me. 

And  here  we  lie,  Doc  Hill  and  I 

Where  none  breaks  through  and  steals, 

And  no  eye  needs  to  guard. 


33 


13roum 


MAURICE,  weep  not,  I  am  not  here  under  this  pine 

tree. 
The  balmy  air  of  spring  whispers  through  the  sweet 

grass, 

The  stars  sparkle,  the  whippoorwill  calls, 
But  thou  grievest,  while  my  soul  lies  rapturous 
In  the  blest  Nirvana  of  eternal  light  ! 
Go  to  the  good  heart  that  is  my  husband, 
Who  broods  upon  what  he  calls  our  guilty  love  :  — 
Tell  him  that  my  love  for  you,  no  less  than  my  love 

for  him, 

Wrought  out  my  destiny  —  that  through  the  flesh 
I  won  spirit,  and  through  spirit,  peace. 
There  is  no  marriage  in  heaven, 
But  there  is  love. 


34 


MY  father  who  owned  the  wagon-shop 

And  grew  rich  shoeing  horses 

Sent  me  to  the  University  of  Montreal. 

I  learned  nothing  and  returned  home, 

Roaming  the  fields  with  Bert  Kessler, 

Hunting  quail  and  snipe. 

At  Thompson's  Lake  the  trigger  of  my  gun 

Caught  in  the  side  of  the  boat 

And  a  great  hole  was  shot  through  my  heart. 

Over  me  a  fond  father  erected  this  marble  shaft, 

On  which  stands  the  figure  of  a  woman 

Carved  by  an  Italian  artist. 

They  say  the  ashes  of  my  namesake 

Were  scattered  near  the  pyramid  of  Caius  Cestius 

Somewhere  near  Rome. 


35 


j^lossir  Cabantflf 

FROM  Bindle's  opera  house  in  the  village 

To  Broadway  is  a  great  step. 

But  I  tried  to  take  it,  my  ambition  fired 

When  sixteen  years  of  age, 

Seeing  "East  Lynne"  played  here  in  the  village 

By  Ralph  Barrett,  the  coming 

Romantic  actor,  who  enthralled  my  soul. 

True,  I  trailed  back  home,  a  broken  failure, 

When  Ralph  disappeared  in  New  York, 

Leaving  me  alone  in  the  city  — 

But  life  broke  him  also. 

In  all  this  place  of  silence 

There  are  no  kindred  spirits. 

How  I  wish  Duse  could  stand  amid  the  pathos 

Of  these  quiet  fields 

And  read  these  words. 


36 


31ulia  filler 

WE  quarreled  that  morning, 

For  he  was  sixty-five,  and  I  was  thirty, 

And  I  was  nervous  and  heavy  with  the  child 

Whose  birth  I  dreaded. 

I  thought  over  the  last  letter  written  me 

By  that  estranged  young  soul 

Whose  betrayal  of  me  I  had  concealed 

By  marrying  the  old  man. 

Then  I  took  morphine  and  sat  down  to  read. 

Across  the  blackness  that  came  over  my  eyes 

I  see  the  flickering  light  of  these  words  even  now 

"And  Jesus  said  unto  him,  Verily 

I  say  unto  thee,  To-day  thou  shalt 

Be  with  me  in  paradise." 


37 


FATHER,  thou  canst  never  know 

The  anguish  that  smote  my  heart 

For  my  disobedience,  the  moment  I  felt 

The  remorseless  wheel  of  the  engine 

Sink  into  the  crying  flesh  of  my  leg. 

As  they  carried  me  to  the  home  of  widow  Morris 

I  could  see  the  school-house  in  the  valley 

To  which  I  played  truant  to  steal  rides  upon  the 

trains. 

I  prayed  to  live  until  I  could  ask  your  forgiveness  — 
And  then  your  tears,  your  broken  words  of  comfort ! 
From  the  solace  of  that  hour  I  have  gained  infinite 

happiness. 

Thou  wert  wise  to  chisel  for  me : 
"Taken  from  the  evil  to  come." 


Charlie 

Dm  you  ever  find  out 

Which  one  of  the  O'Brien  boys  it  was 

Who  snapped  the  toy  pistol  against  my  hand  ? 

There  when  the  flags  were  red  and  white 

In  the  breeze  and  "Bucky"  Estil 

Was  firing  the  cannon  brought  to  Spoon  River 

From  Vicksburg  by  Captain  Harris ; 

And  the  lemonade  stands  were  running 

And  the  band  was  playing, 

To  have  it  all  spoiled 

By  a  piece  of  a  cap  shot  under  the  skin  of  my  hand, 

And  the  boys  all  crowding  about  me  saying : 

"You'll  die  of  lock-jaw,  Charlie,  sure." 

Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear! 

What  chum  of  mine  could  have  done  it  ? 


39 


Witt 

I  WAS  sixteen,  and  I  had  the  most  terrible  dreams, 
And  specks  before  my  eyes,  and  nervous  weakness. 
And  I  couldn't  remember  the  books  I  read, 
Like  Frank  Drummer  who  memorized  page  after 

page. 

And  my  back  was  weak,  and  I  worried  and  worried, 
And  I  was  embarrassed  and  stammered  my  lessons, 
And  when  I  stood  up  to  recite  I'd  forget 
Everything  that  I  had  studied. 
Well,  I  saw  Dr.  Weese's  advertisement, 
And  there  I  read  everything  in  print, 
Just  as  if  he  had  known  me ; 
And  about  the  dreams  which  I  couldn't  help. 
So  I  knew  I  was  marked  for  an  early  grave. 
And  I  worried  until  I  had  a  cough, 
And  then  the  dreams  stopped. 
And  then  I  slept  the  sleep  without  dreams 
Here  on  the  hill  by  the  river. 


tfje 

As  a  boy,  Theodore,  you  sat  for  long  hours 

On  the  shore  of  the  turbid  Spoon 

With  deep-set  eye  staring  at  the  door  of  the  craw- 
fish's burrow, 

Waiting  for  him  to  appear,  pushing  ahead, 

First  his  waving  antennae,  like  straws  of  hay, 

And  soon  his  body,  colored  like  soap-stone, 

Gemmed  with  eyes  of  jet. 

And  you  wondered  in  a  trance  of  thought 

What  he  knew,  what  he  desired,  and  why  he  lived 
at  all. 

But  later  your  vision  watched  for  men  and  women 

Hiding  in  burrows  of  fate  amid  great  cities, 

Looking  for  the  souls  of  them  to  come  out, 

So  that  you  could  see 

How  they  lived,  and  for  what, 

And  why  they  kept  crawling  so  busily 

Along  the  sandy  way  where  water  fails 

As  the  summer  wanes. 


THE  Prohibitionists  made  me  Town  Marshal 

When  the  saloons  were  voted  out, 

Because  when  I  was  a  drinking  man, 

Before  I  joined  the  church,  I  killed  a  Swede 

At  the  saw-mill  near  Maple  Grove. 

And  they  wanted  a  terrible  man, 

Grim,  righteous,  strong,  courageous, 

And  a  hater  of  saloons  and  drinkers, 

To  keep  law  and  order  in  the  village. 

And  they  presented  me  with  a  loaded  cane 

With  which  I  struck  Jack  McGuire 

Before  he  drew  the  gun  with  which  he  killed  me. 

The  Prohibitionists  spent  their  money  in  vain 

To  hang  him,  for  in  a  dream 

I  appeared  to  one  of  the  twelve  jurymen 

And  told  him  the  whole  secret  story. 

Fourteen  years  were  enough  for  killing  me. 


42 


3fjacb 

THEY  would  have  lynched  me 

Had  I  not  been  secretly  hurried  away 

To  the  jail  at  Peoria. 

And  yet  I  was  going  peacefully  home, 

Carrying  my  jug,  a  little  drunk, 

When  Logan,  the  marshal,  halted  me, 

Called  me  a  drunken  hound  and  shook  me, 

And,  when  I  cursed  him  for  it,  struck  me 

With  that  Prohibition  loaded  cane  — 

All  this  before  I  shot  him. 

They  would  have  hanged  me  except  for  this : 

My  lawyer,  Kinsey  Keene,  was  helping  to  land 

Old  Thomas  Rhodes  for  wrecking  the  bank, 

And  the  judge  was  a  friend  of  Rhodes 

And  wanted  him  to  escape, 

And  Kinsey  offered  to  quit  on  Rhodes 

For  fourteen  years  for  me. 

And  the  bargain  was  made.     I  served  my  time 

And  learned  to  read  and  write. 


43 


I  WAS  not  beloved  of  the  villagers, 

But  all  because  I  spoke  my  mind, 

And  met  those  who  transgressed  against  me 

With  plain  remonstrance,  hiding  nor  nurturing 

Nor  secret  griefs  nor  grudges. 

That  act  of  the  Spartan  boy  is  greatly  praised, 

Who  hid  the  wolf  under  his  cloak, 

Letting  it  devour  him,  uncomplainingly. 

It  is  braver,  I  think,  to  snatch  the  wolf  forth 

And  fight  him  openly,  even  in  the  street, 

Amid  dust  and  howls  of  pain. 

The  tongue  may  be  an  unruly  member  — 

But  silence  poisons  the  soul. 

Berate  me  who  will  —  I  am  content. 


WERE  you  not  ashamed,  fellow  citizens, 

When  my  estate  was  probated  and  everyone  knew 

How  small  a  fortune  I  left  ?  — 

You  who  hounded  me  in  life, 

To  give,  give,  give  to  the  churches,  to  the  poor, 

To  the  village !  —  me  who  had  already  given  much. 

And  think  you  not  I  did  not  know 

That  the  pipe-organ,  which  I  gave  to  the  church, 

Played  its  christening  songs  when  Deacon  Rhodes, 

Who  broke  the  bank  and  all  but  ruined  me, 

Worshipped  for  the  first  time  after  his  acquittal  ? 


45 


3flacob 

WHEN  Fort  Sumter  fell  and  the  war  came 

I  cried  out  in  bitterness  of  soul : 

"O  glorious  republic  now  no  more!" 

When  they  buried  my  soldier  son 

To  the  call  of  trumpets  and  the  sound  of  drums 

My  heart  broke  beneath  the  weight 

Of  eighty  years,  and  I  cried  : 

"Oh,  son  who  died  in  a  cause  unjust! 

In  the  strife  of  Freedom  slain  !" 

And  I  crept  here  under  the  grass. 

And  now  from  the  battlements  of  time,  behold  : 

Thrice  thirty  million  souls  being  bound  together 

In  the  love  of  larger  truth, 

Rapt  in  the  expectation  of  the  birth 

Of  a  new  Beauty, 

Sprung  from  Brotherhood  and  Wisdom. 

I  with  eyes  of  spirit  see  the  Transfiguration 

Before  you  see  it. 

But  ye  infinite  brood  of  golden  eagles  nesting  ever 

higher, 

Wheeling  ever  higher,  the  sun-light  wooing 
Of  lofty  places  of  Thought, 
Forgive  the  blindness  of  the  departed  owl. 

46 


Strum 

I  LEANED  against  the  mantel,  sick,  sick, 

Thinking  of  my  failure,  looking  into  the  abysm, 

Weak  from  the  noon-day  heat. 

A  church  bell  sounded  mournfully  far  away, 

I  heard  the  cry  of  a  baby, 

And  the  coughing  of  John  Yarnell, 

Bed-ridden,  feverish,  feverish,  dying, 

Then  the  violent  voice  of  my  wife : 

"Watch  out,  the  potatoes  are  burning!" 

I    smelled    them    .  .  .    then   there   was   irresistible 

disgust. 

I  pulled  the  trigger  .  .  .  blackness  .  .  .  light  .  .  . 
Unspeakable   regret   .  .  .   fumbling   for  the   world 

again. 

Too  late !    Thus  I  came  here, 
With  lungs  for  breathing  .  .  .  one  cannot  breathe 

here  with  lungs, 

Though  one  must  breathe.  ...     Of  what  use  is  it 
To  rid  one's  self  of  the  world, 
When  no  soul  may  ever  escape  the  eternal  destiny  of 

life  ? 


47 


fuller  £>laefe 

I  WOULD  have  been  as  great  as  George  Eliot 

But  for  an  untoward  fate. 

For  look  at  the  photograph  of  me  made  by  Peniwit, 

Chin  resting  on  hand,  and  deep-set  eyes  — 

Gray,  too,  and  far-searching. 

But  there  was  the  old,  old  problem : 

Should  it  be  celibacy,  matrimony  or  unchastity  ? 

Then  John  Slack,  the  rich  druggist,  wooed  me, 

Luring  me  with  the  promise  of  leisure  for  my  novel, 

And  I  married  him,  giving  birth  to  eight  children, 

And  had  no  time  to  write. 

It  was  all  over  with  me,  anyway, 

When  I  ran  the  needle  in  my  hand 

While  washing  the  baby's  things, 

And  died  from  lock-jaw,  an  ironical  death. 

Hear  me,  ambitious  souls, 

Sex  is  the  curse  of  life ! 


48 


George 

Do  you  remember  when  I  stood  on  the  steps 

Of  the  Court  House  and  talked  free-silver, 

And  the  single-tax  of  Henry  George  ? 

Then   do  you   remember  that,  when  the   Peerless 

Leader 

Lost  the  first  battle,  I  began  to  talk  prohibition, 
And  became  active  in  the  church  ? 
That  was  due  to  my  wife, 
Who  pictured  to  me  my  destruction 
If  I  did  not  prove  my  morality  to  the  people. 
Well,  she  ruined  me : 
For  the  radicals  grew  suspicious  of  me, 
And  the  conservatives  were  never  sure  of  me  — 
And  here  I  lie,  unwept  of  all. 


49 


2fl$eman 

I  SAID  when  they  handed  me  my  diploma, 

I  said  to  myself  I  will  be  good 

And  wise  and  brave  and  helpful  to  others ; 

I  said  I  will  carry  the  Christian  creed 

Into  the  practice  of  medicine  ! 

Somehow  the  world  and  the  other  doctors 

Know  what's  in  your  heart  as  soon  as  you  make 

This  high-souled  resolution. 

And  the  way  of  it  is  they  starve  you  out. 

And  no  one  comes  to  you  but  the  poor. 

And  you  find  too  late  that  being  a  doctor 

Is  just  a  way  of  making  a  living. 

And  when  you  are  poor  and  have  to  carry 

The  Christian  creed  and  wife  and  children 

All  on  your  back,  it  is  too  much  ! 

That's  why  I  made  the  Elixir  of  Youth, 

Which  landed  me  in  the  jail  at  Peoria 

Branded  a  swindler  and  a  crook 

By  the  upright  Federal  Judge ! 


5° 


I  NEVER  saw  any  difference 

Between  playing  cards  for  money 

And  selling  real  estate, 

Practicing  law,  banking,  or  anything  else. 

For  everything  is  chance. 

Nevertheless 

Seest  thou  a  man  diligent  in  business  ? 

He  shall  stand  before  Kings ! 


Lots 


HERE  lies  the  body  of  Lois  Spears, 

Born  Lois  Fluke,  daughter  of  Willard  Fluke, 

Wife  of  Cyrus  Spears, 

Mother  of  Myrtle  and  Virgil  Spears, 

Children  with  clear  eyes  and  sound  limbs  — 

(I  was  born  blind) 

I  was  the  happiest  of  women 

As  wife,  mother  and  housekeeper, 

Caring  for  my  loved  ones, 

And  making  my  home 

A  place  of  order  and  bounteous  hospitality  : 

For  I  went  about  the  rooms, 

And  about  the  garden 

With  an  instinct  as  sure  as  sight, 

As  though  there  were  eyes  in  my  finger  tips  - 

Glory  to  God  in  the  highest. 


3f|us;tice  Ernett 

IT  is  true,  fellow  citizens, 
That  my  old  docket  lying  there  for  years 
On  a  shelf  above  my  head  and  over 
The  seat  of  justice,  I  say  it  is  true 
That  docket  had  an  iron  rim 
Which  gashed  my  baldness  when  it  fell  — 
(Somehow  I  think  it  was  shaken  loose 
By  the  heave  of  the  air  all  over  town 
When  the  gasoline  tank  at  the  canning  works 
Blew  up  and  burned  Butch  Weldy)  — 
But  let  us  argue  points  in  order, 
And  reason  the  whole  case  carefully : 
First  I  concede  my  head  was  cut, 
But  second  the  frightful  thing  was  this : 
The  leaves  of  the  docket  shot  and  showered 
Around  me  like  a  deck  of  cards 
In  the  hands  of  a  sleight  of  hand  performer. 
And  up  to  the  end  I  saw  those  leaves 
Till  I  said  at  last,  "Those  are  not  leaves, 
Why,  can't  you  see  they  are  days  and  days 
And  the  days  and  days  of  seventy  years  ? 
And  why  do  you  torture  me  with  leaves 
And  the  little  entries  on  them  ? 
S3 


3t2UiUara  jflufee 

MY  wife  lost  her  health, 

And  dwindled  until  she  weighed  scarce  ninety  pounds. 

Then  that  woman,  whom  the  men 

Styled  Cleopatra,  came  along. 

And  we  —  we  married  ones 

All  broke  our  vows,  myself  among  the  rest. 

Years  passed  and  one  by  one 

Death  claimed  them  all  in  some  hideous  form, 

And  I  was  borne  along  by  dreams 

Of  God's  particular  grace  for  me, 

And  I  began  to  write,  write,  write,  reams  on  reams 

Of  the  second  coming  of  Christ. 

Then  Christ  came  to  me  and  said, 

"  Go  into  the  church  and  stand  before  the  congregation 

And  confess  your  sin." 

But  just  as  I  stood  up  and  began  to  speak 

I  saw  my  little  girl,  who  was  sitting  in  the  front 

seat  — 

My  little  girl  who  was  born  blind  ! 
After  that,  all  is  blackness ! 

54 


#ner  Clute 

OVER  and  over  they  used  to  ask  me, 

While  buying  the  wine  or  the  beer, 

In  Peoria  first,  and  later  in  Chicago, 

Denver,  Frisco,  New  York,  wherever  I  lived, 

How  I  happened  to  lead  the  life, 

And  what  was  the  start  of  it. 

Well,  I  told  them  a  silk  dress, 

And  a  promise  of  marriage  from  a  rich  man  — 

(It  was  Lucius  Atherton). 

But  that  was  not  really  it  at  all. 

Suppose  a  boy  steals  an  apple 

From  the  tray  at  the  grocery  store, 

And  they  all  begin  to  call  him  a  thief, 

The  editor,  minister,  judge,  and  all  the  people  — 

*' A  thief,"  "  a  thief,"  "  a  thief,"  wherever  he  goes. 

And  he  can't  get  work,  and  he  can't  get  bread 

Without  stealing  it,  why,  the  boy  will  steal. 

It's  the  way  the  people  regard  the  theft  of  the  apple 

That  makes  the  boy  what  he  is. 


55 


iluctu* 


WHEN  my  moustache  curled, 

And  my  hair  was  black, 

And  I  wore  tight  trousers 

And  a  diamond  stud, 

I  was  an  excellent  knave  of  hearts  and  took  many  a 

trick. 

But  when  the  gray  hairs  began  to  appear  — 
Lo  !   a  new  generation  of  girls 
Laughed  at  me,  not  fearing  me, 
And  I  had  no  more  exciting  adventures 
Wherein  I  was  all  but  shot  for  a  heartless  devil, 
But  only  drabby  affairs,  warmed-over  affairs 
Of  other  days  and  other  men. 

And  time  went  on  until  I  lived  at  Mayer's  restaurant, 
Partaking  of  short-orders,  a  gray,  untidy, 
Toothless,  discarded,  rural  Don  Juan.  .  .  . 
There  is  a  mighty  shade  here  who  sings 
Of  one  named  Beatrice  ; 

And  I  see  now  that  the  force  that  made  him  great 
Drove  me  to  the  dregs  of  life. 

56 


Corner  Clapp 

OFTEN  Aner  Clute  at  the  gate 

Refused  me  the  parting  kiss, 

Saying  we  should  be  engaged  before  that; 

And  just  with  a  distant  clasp  of  the  hand 

She  bade  me  good-night,  as  I  brought  her  home 

From  the  skating  rink  or  the  revival. 

No  sooner  did  my  departing  footsteps  die  away 

Than  Lucius  Atherton, 

(So  I  learned  when  Aner  went  to  Peoria) 

Stole  in  at  her  window,  or  took  her  riding 

Behind  his  spanking  team  of  bays 

Into  the  country. 

The  shock  of  it  made  me  settle  down, 

And  I  put  all  the  money  I  got  from  my  father' 

estate 

Into  the  canning  factory,  to  get  the  job 
Of  head  accountant,  and  lost  it  all. 
And  then  I  knew  I  was  one  of  Life's  fools, 
Whom  only  death  would  treat  as  the  equal 
Of  other  men,  making  me  feel  like  a  man. 


57 


Deacon 

I  BELONGED  to  the  church, 
And  to  the  party  of  prohibition ; 
And  the  villagers  thought  I  died  of  eating  water- 
melon. 

In  truth  I  had  cirrhosis  of  the  liver, 
For  every  noon  for  thirty  years, 
I  slipped  behind  the  prescription  partition 
In  Trainer's  drug  store 
And  poured  a  generous  drink 
From  the  bottle  marked 
"  Spiritus  frumenti." 


Ooofee \> 

I  RAN  away  from  home  with  the  circus, 

Having  fallen  in  love  with  Mademoiselle  Estralada, 

The  lion  tamer. 

One  time,  having  starved  the  lions 

For  more  than  a  day, 

I  entered  the  cage  and  began  to  beat  Brutus 

And  Leo  and  Gypsy. 

Whereupon  Brutus  sprang  upon  me, 

And  killed  me. 

On  entering  these  regions 

I  met  a  shadow  who  cursed  me, 

And  said  it  served  me  right.  ... 

It  was  Robespierre ! 


59 


Coonei?  potter 

I  INHERITED  forty  acres  from  my  Father 

And,  by  working  my  wife,  my  two  sons  and  two 

daughters 

From  dawn  to  dusk,  I  acquired 
A  thousand  acres.     But  not  content, 
Wishing  to  own  two  thousand  acres, 
I  bustled  through  the  years  with  axe  and  plow, 
Toiling,   denying  myself,   my   wife,   my   sons,   my 

daughters. 

Squire  Higbee  wrongs  me  to  say 
That  I  died  from  smoking  Red  Eagle  cigars. 
Eating  hot  pie  and  gulping  coffee 
During  the  scorching  hours  of  harvest  time 
Brought  me  here  ere  I  had  reached  my  sixtieth  year. 


60 


THE  earth  keeps  some  vibration  going 

There  in  your  heart,  and  that  is  you. 

And  if  the  people  find  you  can  fiddle, 

Why,  fiddle  you  must,  for  all  your  life. 

What  do  you  see,  a  harvest  of  clover  ? 

Or  a  meadow  to  walk  through  to  the  river  ? 

The  wind's  in  the  corn ;   you  rub  your  hands 

For  beeves  hereafter  ready  for  market; 

Or  else  you  hear  the  rustle  of  skirts 

Like  the  girls  when  dancing  at  Little  Grove. 

To  Cooney  Potter  a  pillar  of  dust 

Or  whirling  leaves  meant  ruinous  drouth ; 

They  looked  to  me  like  Red-Head  Sammy 

Stepping  it  off,  to  "Toor-a-Loor." 

How  could  I  till  my  forty  acres 

Not  to  speak  of  getting  more, 

With  a  medley  of  horns,  bassoons  and  piccolos 

Stirred  in  my  brain  by  crows  and  robins 

And  the  creak  of  a  wind-mill  —  only  these  ? 

And  I  never  started  to  plow  in  my  life 

That  some  one  did  not  stop  in  the  road 

And  take  me  away  to  a  dance  or  picnic. 

I  ended  up  with  forty  acres ; 

I  ended  up  with  a  broken  fiddle  — 

And  a  broken  laugh,  and  a  thousand  memories, 

And  not  a  single  regret. 

61 


ie  Clarfe 


I  WAS  only  eight  years  old  ; 

And  before  I  grew  up  and  knew  what  it  meant 

I  had  no  words  for  it,  except 

That  I  was  frightened  and  told  my  Mother; 

And  that  my  Father  got  a  pistol 

And  would  have  killed  Charlie,  who  was  a  big  boy, 

Fifteen  years  old,  except  for  his  Mother. 

Nevertheless  the  story  clung  to  me. 

But  the  man  who  married  me,  a  widower  of  thirty- 

five, 

Was  a  newcomer  and  never  heard  it 
Till  two  years  after  we  were  married. 
Then  he  considered  himself  cheated, 
And  the  village  agreed  that  I  was  not  really  a  virgin. 
Well,  he  deserted  me,  and  I  died 
The  following  winter. 


62 


Louise 

HERBERT  broke  our  engagement  of  eight  years 

When  Annabelle  returned  to  the  village 

From  the  Seminary,  ah  me ! 

If  I  had  let  my  love  for  him  alone 

It  might  have  grown  into  a  beautiful  sorrow  — 

Who  knows  ?  —  filling  my  life  with  healing  fragrance. 

But  I  tortured  it,  I  poisoned  it, 

I  blinded  its  eyes,  and  it  became  hatred  — 

Deadly  ivy  instead  of  clematis. 

And  my  soul  fell  from  its  support, 

Its  tendrils  tangled  in  decay. 

Do  not  let  the  will  play  gardener  to  your  soul 

Unless  you  are  sure 

It  is  wiser  than  your  soul's  nature. 


Herbert 

ALL  your  sorrow,  Louise,  and  hatred  of  me 

Sprang  from  your  delusion  that  it  was  wantonness 

Of  spirit  and  contempt  of  your  soul's  rights 

Which  made  me  turn  to  Annabelle  and  forsake  you. 

You  really  grew  to  hate  me  for  love  of  me, 

Because  I  was  your  soul's  happiness, 

Formed  and  tempered 

To  solve  your  life  for  you,  and  would  not. 

But  you  were  my  misery.     If  you  had  been 

My  happiness  would  I  not  have  clung  to  you  ? 

This  is  life's  sorrow : 

That  one  can  be  happy  only  where  two  are ; 

And  that  our  hearts  are  drawn  to  stars 

Which  want  us  not. 


64 


<Seorge 

I  HAVE  studied  many  times 
The  marble  which  was  chiseled  for  me  — 
A  boat  with  a  furled  sail  at  rest  in  a  harbor. 
In  truth  it  pictures  not  my  destination 
But  my  life. 

For  love  was  offered  me  and  I  shrank  from  its  dis- 
illusionment ; 

Sorrow  knocked  at  my  door,  but  I  was  afraid ; 
Ambition  called  to  me,  but  I  dreaded  the  chances. 
Yet  all  the  while  I  hungered  for  meaning  in  my  life. 
And  now  I  know  that  we  must  lift  the  sail 
And  catch  the  winds  of  destiny 
Wherever  they  drive  the  boat. 
To  put  meaning  in  one's  life  may  end  in  madness, 
But  life  without  meaning  is  the  torture 
Of  restlessness  and  vague  desire  — 
It  is  a  boat  longing  for  the  sea  and  yet  afraid. 


l?on,  *£ntn?  Bennett 

IT  never  came  into  my  mind 

Until  I  was  ready  to  die 

That  Jenny  had  loved  me  to  death,  with  malice  of 

heart. 

For  I  was  seventy,  she  was  thirty-five, 
And  I  wore  myself  to  a  shadow  trying  to  husband 
Jenny,  rosy  Jenny  full  of  the  ardor  of  life. 
For  all  my  wisdom  and  grace  of  mind 
Gave  her  no  delight  at  all,  in  very  truth, 
But  ever  and  anon  she  spoke  of  the  giant  strength 
Of  Willard  Shafer,  and  of  his  wonderful  feat 
Of  lifting  a  traction  engine  out  of  the  ditch 
One  time  at  Georgie  Kirby's. 

So  Jenny  inherited  my  fortune  and  married  Wil- 
lard— 
That  mount  of  brawn !    That  clownish  soul ! 


66 


ty  Cooper 

THE  cooper  should  know  about  tubs. 

But  I  learned  about  life  as  well, 

And  you  who  loiter  around  these  graves 

Think  you  know  life. 

You  think  your  eye  sweeps  about  a  wide  horizon, 

perhaps, 
In  truth  you  are  only  looking  around  the  interior  of 

your  tub. 

You  cannot  lift  yourself  to  its  rim 
And  see  the  outer  world  of  things, 
And  at  the  same  time  see  yourself. 
You  are  submerged  in  the  tub  of  yourself  — 
Taboos  and  rules  and  appearances, 
Are  the  staves  of  your  tub. 
Break  them  and  dispel  the  witchcraft 
Of  thinking  your  tub  is  life ! 
And  that  you  know  life ! 


Do  you  think  that  odes  and  sermons, 

And  the  ringing  of  church  bells, 

And  the  blood  of  old  men  and  young  men, 

Martyred  for  the  truth  they  saw 

With  eyes  made  bright  by  faith  in  God, 

Accomplished  the  world's  great  reformations  ? 

Do  you  think  that  the  Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic 

Would  have  been  heard  if  the  chattel  slave 

Had  crowned  the  dominant  dollar, 

In  spite  of  Whitney's  cotton  gin, 

And  steam  and  rolling  mills  and  iron 

And  telegraphs  and  white  free  labor  ? 

Do  you  think  that  Daisy  Fraser 

Had  been  put  out  and  driven  out 

If  the  canning  works  had  never  needed 

Her  little  house  and  lot  ? 

Or  do  you  think  the  poker  room 

Of  Johnnie  Taylor,  and  Burchard's  bar 

Had  been  closed  up  if  the  money  lost 

And  spent  for  beer  had  not  been  turned, 

By  closing  them,  to  Thomas  Rhodes 

For  larger  sales  of  shoes  and  blankets, 

And  children's  cloaks  and  gold-oak  cradles  ? 

Why,  a  moral  truth  is  a  hollow  tooth 

Which  must  be  propped  with  gold. 

68 


&  3D,  HBloob 

IF  you  in  the  village  think  that  my  work  was  a  good 

one, 
Who  closed  the  saloons  and  stopped  all  playing  at 

cards, 

And  haled  old  Daisy  Eraser  before  Justice  Arnett, 
In  many  a  crusade  to  purge  the  people  of  sin; 
Why  do  you  let  the  milliner's  daughter  Dora, 
And  the  worthless  son  of  Benjamin  Pantier, 
Nightly  make  my  grave  their  unholy  pillow  ? 


69 


Hobcrt  gwifytv  Burke 


I  SPENT  my  money  trying  to  elect  you  Mayor 

A.  D.  Blood. 

I  lavished  my  admiration  upon  you, 

You  were  to  my  mind  the  almost  perfect  man. 

You  devoured  my  personality, 

And  the  idealism  of  my  youth, 

And  the  strength  of  a  high-souled  fealty. 

And  all  my  hopes  for  the  world, 

And  all  my  beliefs  in  Truth, 

Were  smelted  up  in  the  blinding  heat 

Of  my  devotion  to  you, 

And  molded  into  your  image. 

And  then  when  I  found  what  you  were  : 

That  your  soul  was  small 

And  your  words  were  false 

As  your  blue-white  porcelain  teeth, 

And  your  cuffs  of  celluloid, 

I  hated  the  love  I  had  for  you, 

I  hated  myself,  I  hated  you 

For  my  wasted  soul,  and  wasted  youth. 

And  I  say  to  all,  beware  of  ideals, 

Beware  of  giving  your  love  away 

To  any  man  alive. 


70 


Dora  Militants 

WHEN  Reuben  Pantier  ran  away  and  threw  me 

I  went  to  Springfield.     There  I  met  a  lush, 

Whose  father  just  deceased  left  him  a  fortune. 

He  married  me  when  drunk.     My  life  was  wretched. 

A  year  passed  and  one  day  they  found  him  dead. 

That  made  me  rich.     I  moved  on  to  Chicago. 

After  a  time  met  Tyler  Rountree,  villain. 

I  moved  on  to  New  York.     A  gray-haired  magnate 

Went  mad  about  me  —  so  another  fortune. 

He  died  one  night  right  in  my  arms,  you  know. 

(I  saw  his  purple  face  for  years  thereafter.)  ijj^irl    jLACi 

There  was  almost  a  scandal.     I  moved  on, 

This  time  to  Paris.     I  was  now  a  woman, 

Insidious,  subtle,  versed  in  the  world  and  rich. 

My  sweet  apartment  near  the  Champs  Elysees 

Became  a  center  for  all  sorts  of  people, 

Musicians,  poets,  dandies,  artists,  nobles, 

Where  we  spoke  French  and  German,  Italian,  English. 

I  wed  Count  Navigato,  native  of  Genoa.  A^/l^vtA^* 

We  went  to  Rome.     He  poisoned  me,  I  think. 


Now  in  the  Campo  Santo  overlopkine^  ;^  ^_  . 
The  sea  where  young  Columbus  ^dreamed  new  worlds,) 
See  what  they  chiseled  :   "  Contessa  Navigato   i  JT) 
Implora  eterna  quiete" 

AM  -"/' 


3 


Militants 

I  WAS  the  milliner 

Talked  about,  lied  about, 

Mother  of  Dora, 

Whose  strange  disappearance 

Was  charged  to  her  rearing. 

My  eye  quick  to  beauty 

Saw  much  beside  ribbons 

And  buckles  and  feathers 

And  leghorns  and  felts, 

To  set  off  sweet  faces, 

And  dark  hair  and  gold. 

One  thing  I  will  tell  you 

And  one  I  will  ask : 

The  stealers  of  husbands 

Wear  powder  and  trinkets, 

And  fashionable  hats. 

Wives,  wear  them  yourselves. 

Hats  may  make  divorces  — 

They  also  prevent  them. 

Well  now,  let  me  ask  you : 

If  all  of  the  children,  born  here  in  Spoon  River 

72 


Had  been  reared  by  the  County,  somewhere  on  a 

farm; 
And  the  fathers  and  mothers  had  been  given  their 

freedom 

To  live  and  enjoy,  change  mates  if  they  wished, 
Do  you  think  that  Spoon  River 
Had  been  any  the  worse  ? 


William  anD  Cmtlr 

THERE  is  something  about  Death 

Like  love  itself! 

If  with  some  one  with  whom  you  have  known  passion, 

And  the  glow  of  youthful  love, 

You  also,  after  years  of  life 

Together,  feel  the  sinking  of  the  fire, 

And  thus  fade  away  together, 

Gradually,  faintly,  delicately, 

As  it  were  in  each  other's  arms, 

Passing  from  the  familiar  room  — 

That  is  a  power  of  urpsbn  between  souls 

Like  love  itself! 


74 


Circuit  3fiuDge 

TAKE  note,  passers-by,  of  the  sharp  erosions/ 
Eaten  in  my  head-stone  by  the  wind  and  rain  — -  . , 
Almost  as  if  an  intangible  Nemesis  or  hatred 

ITT  1    • 

Were  marking  scores  against  me, 

But  to  destroy,  and  not  preserve,  my  memory. 

I  in  life  was  the  Circuit  Judge,  a  maker  of  notches, 

Deciding  cases  on  the  points  the  lawyers  scored, 

Not  on  the  right  of  the  matter. 

O  wind  and  rain,  leave  my  head-stone  alone  I 

For  worse  than  the  anger  of  the  wronged, 

The  curses  of  the  poor, 

Was  to  lie  speechless,  yet  with  vision  clear, 

Seeing  that  even  Hod  Putt,  the  murderer, 

Hanged  by  my  sentence, 

Was  innocent  in  soul  compared  with  me. 


75 


I  HAD  fiddled  all  day  at  the  county  fair. 

But  driving  home  "Butch"  Weldy  and  Jack  Mc- 

Guire, 

Who  were  roaring  full,  made  me  fiddle  and  fiddle 
To  the  song  of  Susie  Skinner,  while  whipping  the 

horses 

Till  they  ran  away. 
Blind  as  I  was,  I  tried  to  get  out 
As  the  carriage  fell  in  the  ditch, 
And  was  caught  in  the  wheels  and  killed. 
There's  a  blind  man  here  with  a  brow 
As  big  and  white  as  a  cloud. 
And  all  we  fiddlers,  from  highest  to  lowest, 
Writers  of  music  and  tellers  of  stories, 
Sit  at  his  feet, 
And  hear  him  sing  of  the  fall  of  Troy. 


3flofin 

I  WON  the  prize  essay  at  school 

Here  in  the  village, 

And  published  a  novel  before  I  was  twenty-five. 

I  went  to  the  city  for  themes  and  to  enrich  my  art ; 

There  married  the  banker's  daughter, 

And  later  became  president  of  the  bank  — 

Always  looking  forward  to  some  leisure 

To  write  an  epic  novel  of  the  war. 

Meanwhile  friend  of  the  great,  and  lover  of  letters, 

And  host  to  Matthew  Arnold  and  to  Emerson. 

An  after  dinner  speaker,  writing  essays 

For  local  clubs.     At  last  brought  here  — 

My  boyhood  home,  you  know  — 

Not  even  a  little  tablet  in  Chicago 

To  keep  my  name  alive. 

How  great  it  is  to  write  the  single  line : 

"Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  Ocean,  roll!" 


77 


WELL,  don't  you  see  this  was  the  way  of  it : 
We  bought  the  farm  with  what  he  inherited, 
And  his  brothers  and  sisters  accused  him  of  poisoning 
His  father's  mind  against  the  rest  of  them. 
And  we  never  had  any  peace  with  our  treasure. 
The  murrain  took  the  cattle,  and  the  crops  failed. 
And  lightning  struck  the  granary. 
So  we  mortgaged  the  farm  to  keep  going. 
And  he  grew  silent  and  was  worried  all  the  time. 
Then  some  of  the  neighbors  refused  to  speak  to  us, 
And  took  sides  with  his  brothers  and  sisters. 
And  I  had  no  place  to  turn,  as  one  may  say  to  him- 
self, 

At  an  earlier  time  in  life;   "No  matter, 
So  and  so  is  my  friend,  or  I  can  shake  this  off 
With  a  little  trip  to  Decatur." 
Then  the  dreadfullest  smells  infested  the  rooms. 
So  I  set  fire  to  the  beds  and  the  old  witch-house 
Went  up  in  a  roar  of  flame, 
As  I  danced  in  the  yard  with  waving  arms, 
While  he  wept  like  a  freezing  steer. 


J?oU>en 

THE  very  fall  my  sister  Nancy  Knapp 

Set  fire  to  the  house 

They  were  trying  Dr.  Duval 

For  the  murder  of  Zora  Clemens, 

And  I  sat  in  the  court  two  weeks 

Listening  to  every  witness. 

It  was  clear  he  had  got  her  in  a  family  wayjr,,/  bnA 

And  to  let  the  child  be  born 

Would  not  do. 

Well,  how  about  me  with  eight  children,      ,,irj  -jhiilVI 

And  one  coming,  and  the  farm 

Mortgaged  to  Thomas  Rhodes  ? 

And  when  I  got  home  that  night, 

(After  listening  to  the  story  of  the  buggy  ride,r,i;-j^g 

And  the  finding  of  Zora  in  the  ditch,) 

The  first  thing  I  saw,  right  there  by  the  steps, ; 

Where  the  boys  had  hacked  for  angle  worms,  , ,- 

Was  the  hatchet ! 

And  just  as  I  entered  there  was  my  wife, 

Standing  before  me,  big  with  child. 

She  started  the  talk  of  the  mortgaged  farm, 

And  I  killed  her. 

79 


jfalla* 

I,  THE  scourge-wielder,  balance-wrecker, 

Smiter  with  whips  and  swords ; 

I,  hater  of  the  breakers  of  the  law; 

I,  legalist,  inexorable  and  bitter, 

Driving  the  jury  to  hang  the  madman,  Barry  Holden, 

Was  made  as  one  dead  by  light  too  bright  for  eyes, 

And  woke  to  face  a  Truth  with  bloody  brow : 

Steel  forceps  fumbled  by  a  doctor's  hand 

Against  my  boy's  head  as  he  entered  life 

Made  him  an  idiot. 

I  turned  to  books  of  science 

To  care  for  him. 

That's  how  the  world  of  those  whose  minds  are  sick 

Became  my  work  in  life,  and  all  my  world. 

Poor  ruined  boy !     You  were,  at  last,  the  potter 

And  I  in  all  my  deeds  of  charity 

The  vessels  of  your  hand. 


80 


,  HBlo^D 

THEY  first  charged  me  with  disorderly  conduct, 

There  being  no  statute  on  blasphemy. 

Later  they  locked  me  up  as  insane 

Where  I  was  beaten  to  death  by  a  Catholic  guard. 

My  offense  was  this  : 

I  said  God  lied  to  Adam,  and  destined  him 

To  lead  the  life  of  a  fool, 

Ignorant  that  there  is  evil  in  the  world  as  well  as 
good. 

And  when  Adam  outwitted  God  by  eating  the 
apple 

And  saw  through  the  lie, 

God  drove  him  out  of  Eden  to  keep  him  from  taking 

The  fruit  of  immortal  life. 

For  Christ's  sake,  you  sensible  people, 

Here's  what  God  Himself  says  about  it  in  the  book 
of  Genesis : 

"And  the  Lord  God  said,  behold  the  man 

Is  become  as  one  of  us"  (a  little  envy,  you  see), 

"To  know  good  and  evil"  (The  all-is-good  lie  ex- 
posed) : 

"And  now  lest  he  put  forth  his  hand  and  take 

8l 


Also  of  the  tree  of  life  and  eat,  and  live  forever : 
Therefore  the  Lord  God  sent  Him  forth  from  the 

garden  of  Eden." 

(The  reason  I  believe  God  crucified  His  Own  Son 
To  get  out  of  the  wretched  tangle  is,  because  it 

sounds  just  like  Him.) 


ilood 


,(33 

-X9  ail   f 


82 


jfranciflf  burner 

I  COULD  not  run  or  play 

In  boyhood. 

In  manhood  I  could  only  sip  the  cup, 

Not  drink  — 

For  scarlet-fever  left  my  heart  diseased. 

Yet  I  lie  here 

Soothed  by  a  secret  none  but  Mary  knows 

There  is  a  garden  of  acacia, 

Catalpa  trees,  and  arbors  sweet  with  vines 

There  on  that  afternoon  in  June 

By  Mary's  side  — 

Kissing  her  with  my  soul  upon  my  lips 

It  suddenly  took  flight. 


jfranklm  3f|otu$ 

IF  I  could  have  lived  another  year 

I  could  have  finished  my  flying  machine, 

And  become  rich  and  famous. 

Hence  it  is  fitting  the  workman 

Who  tried  to  chisel  a  dove  for  me 

Made  it  look  more  like  a  chicken. 

For  what  is  it  all  but  being  hatched, 

And  running  about  the  yard, 

To  the  day  of  the  block  ? 

Save  that  a  man  has  an  angel's  brain, 

And  sees  the  ax  from  the  first ! 


84 


I  WAS  attorney  for  the  "Q" 

And  the  Indemnity  Company  which  insured 

The  owners  of  the  mine. 

I  pulled  the  wires  with  judge  and  jury, 

And  the  upper  courts,  to  beat  the  claims 

Of  the  crippled,  the  widow  and  orphan, 

And  made  a  fortune  thereat. 

The  bar  association  sang  my  praises 

In  a  high-flown  resolution. 

And  the  floral  tributes  were  many  — 

But  the  rats  devoured  my  heart 

And  a  snake  made  a  nest  in  my  skull ! 


Uti00fan 

I,  BORN  in  Weimar 

Of  a  mother  who  was  French 

And  German  father,  a  most  learned  professor, 

Orphaned  at  fourteen  years, 

Became  a  dancer,  known  as  Russian  Sonia, 

All  up  and  down  the  boulevards  of  Paris, 

Mistress  betimes  of  sundry  dukes  and  counts, 

And  later  of  poor  artists  and  of  poets. 

At  forty  years,  passee,  I  sought  New  York 

And  met  old  Patrick  Hummer  on  the  boat, 

Red-faced  and  hale,  though  turned  his  sixtieth  year, 

Returning  after  having  sold  a  ship-load 

Of  cattle  in  the  German  city,  Hamburg. 

He  brought  me  to  Spoon  River  and  we  lived  here 

For  twenty  years  —  they   thought   that   we  were 

married  ! 

This  oak  tree  near  me  is  the  favorite  haunt 
Of  blue  jays  chattering,  chattering  all  the  day. 
And  why  not  ?   for  my  very  dust  is  laughing 
For  thinking  of  the  humorous  thing  called  life. 


86 


gutter 

Doc  MEYERS  said  I  had  satyriasis, 

And  Doc  Hill  called  it  leucaemia  — 

But  I  know  what  brought  me  here : 

I  was  sixty-four  but  strong  as  a  man 

Of  thirty-five  or  forty. 

And  it  wasn't  writing  a  letter  a  day, 

And  it  wasn't  late  hours  seven  nights  a  week, 

And  it  wasn't  the  strain  of  thinking  of  Minnie, 

And  it  wasn't  fear  or  a  jealous  dread, 

Or  the  endless  task  of  trying  to  fathom 

Her  wonderful  mind,  or  sympathy 

For  the  wretched  life  she  led 

With  her  first  and  second  husband  — 

It  was  none  of  these  that  laid  me  low  — 

But  the  clamor  of  daughters  and  threats  of  sons, 

And  the  sneers  and  curses  of  all  my  kin 

Right  up  to  the  day  I  sneaked  to  Peoria 

And  married  Minnie  in  spite  of  them  — 

And  why  do  you  wonder  my  will  was  made 

For  the  best  and  purest  of  women  ? 


IF  the  excursion  train  to  Peoria 

Had  just  been  wrecked,  I  might  have  escaped  with 

my  life  — 

Certainly  I  should  have  escaped  this  place. 
But  as  it  was  burned  as  well,  they  mistook  me 
For  John  Allen  who  was  sent  to  the  Hebrew  Cemetery 
At  Chicago, 

And  John  for  me,  so  I  lie  here. 
It  was  bad  enough  to  run  a  clothing  store  in  this 

town, 
But  to  be  buried  here  —  ach! 


petit,  tfoe 

SEEDS  in  a  dry  pod,  tick,  tick,  tick, 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  like  mites  in  a  quarrel  — 

Faint  iambics  that  the  full  breeze  wakens  — 

But  the  pine  tree  makes  a  symphony  thereof. 

Triolets,  villanelles,  rondels,  rondeaus, 

Ballades  by  the  score  with  the  same  old  thought : 

The  snows  and  the  roses  of  yesterday  are  vanished ; 

And  what  is  love  but  a  rose  that  fades  ? 

Life  all  around  me  here  in  the  village : 

Tragedy,  comedy,  valor  and  truth, 

Courage,  constancy,  heroism,  failure  — 

All  in  the  loom,  and  oh  what  patterns ! 

Woodlands,  meadows,  streams  and  rivers  — 

Blind  to  all  of  it  all  my  life  long. 

Triolets,  villanelles,  rondels,  rondeaus, 

Seeds  in  a  dry  pod,  tick,  tick,  tick, 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  what  little  iambics, 

While  Homer  and  Whitman  roared  in  the  pines  ? 


pmliiu  Barrett 

ALMOST  the  shell  of  a  woman  after  the  surgeon's 

knife! 

And  almost  a  year  to  creep  back  into  strength, 
Till  the  dawn  of  our  wedding  decennial 
Found  me  my  seeming  self  again. 
We  walked  the  forest  together, 
By  a  path  of  soundless  moss  and  turf. 
But  I  could  not  look  in  your  eyes, 
And  you  could  not  look  in  my  eyes, 
For  such  sorrow  was  ours  —  the  beginning  of  gray 

in  your  hair, 

And  I  but  a  shell  of  myself. 
And  what  did  we  talk  of  ?  —  sky  and  water, 
Anything,  'most,  to  hide  our  thoughts. 
And  then  your  gift  of  wild  roses, 
Set  on  the  table  to  grace  our  dinner. 
Poor  heart,  how  bravely  you  struggled 
To  imagine  and  live  a  remembered  rapture ! 
Then  my  spirit  drooped  as  the  night  came  on, 
And  you  left  me  alone  in  my  room  for  a  while, 
As  you  did  when  I  was  a  bride,  poor  heart. 
And  I  looked  in  the  mirror  and  something  said : 
"One  should  be  all  dead  when  one  is  half-dead  — 
Nor  ever  mock  life,  nor  ever  cheat  love." 
And  I  did  it  looking  there  in  the  mirror  — 
Dear,  have  you  ever  understood  ? 

90 


REVEREND  WILEY  advised  me  not  to  divorce  him 

For  the  sake  of  the  children, 

And  Judge  Somers  advised  him  the  same. 

So  we  stuck  to  the  end  of  the  path. 

But  two  of  the  children  thought  he  was  right, 

And  two  of  the  children  thought  I  was  right. 

And  the  two  who  sided  with  him  blamed  me, 

And  the  two  who  sided  with  me  blamed  him, 

And  they  grieved  for  the  one  they  sided  with. 

And  all  were  torn  with  the  guilt  of  judging, 

And  tortured  in  soul  because  they  could  not  admire 

Equally  him  and  me. 

Now  every  gardener  knows  that  plants  grown  in 

cellars 

Or  under  stones  are  twisted  and  yellow  and  weak. 
And  no  mother  would  let  her  baby  suck 
Diseased  milk  from  her  breast. 

Yet  preachers  and  judges  advise  the  raising  of  souls 
Where  there  is  no  sunlight,  but  only  twilight, 
No  warmth,  but  only  dampness  and  cold  — 
Preachers  and  judges ! 


£Brs.  George  lirrcr 

To  this  generation  I  would  say : 

Memorize  some  bit  of  verse  of  truth  or  beauty. 

It  may  serve  a  turn  in  your  life. 

My  husband  had  nothing  to  do 

With  the  fall  of  the  bank  —  he  was  only  cashier. 

The  wreck  was  due  to  the  president,  Thomas  Rhodes, 

And  his  vain,  unscrupulous  son. 

Yet  my  husband  was  sent  to  prison, 

And  I  was  left  with  the  children, 

To  feed  and  clothe  and  school  them. 

And  I  did  it,  and  sent  them  forth 

Into  the  world  all  clean  and  strong, 

And  all  through  the  wisdom  of  Pope,  the  poet : 

"Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honor  lies." 


92 


Jlemuel 


I  PREACHED  four  thousand  sermons, 

I  conducted  forty  revivals, 

And  baptized  many  converts. 

Yet  no  deed  of  mine 

Shines  brighter  in  the  memory  of  the  world, 

And  none  is  treasured  more  by  me  : 

Look  how  I  saved  the  Blisses  from  divorce, 

And  kept  the  children  free  from  that  disgrace, 

To  grow  up  into  moral  men  and  women, 

Happy  themselves,  a  credit  to  the  village. 


93 


THIS  I  saw  with  my  own  eyes : 

A  cliff-swallow 

Made  her  nest  in  a  hole  of  the  high  clay-bank 

There  near  Miller's  Ford. 

But  no  sooner  were  the  young  hatched 

Than  a  snake  crawled  up  to  the  nest 

To  devour  the  brood. 

Then  the  mother  swallow  with  swift  flutterings 

And  shrill  cries 

Fought  at  the  snake, 

Blinding  him  with  the  beat  of  her  wings, 

Until  he,  wriggling  and  rearing  his  head, 

Fell  backward  down  the  bank 

Into  Spoon  River  and  was  drowned. 

Scarcely  an  hour  passed 

Until  a  shrike 

Impaled  the  mother  swallow  on  a  thorn. 

As  for  myself  I  overcame  my  lower  nature 

Only  to  be  destroyed  by  my  brother's  ambition. 


94 


abner 


I  HAD  no  objection  at  all 

To  selling  my  household  effects  at  auction 

On  the  village  square. 

It  gave  my  beloved  flock  the  chance 

To  get  something  which  had  belonged  to  me 

For  a  memorial. 

But  that  trunk  which  was  struck  off 

To  Burchard,  the  grog-keeper  ! 

Did  you  know  it  contained  the  manuscripts 

Of  a  lifetime  of  sermons  ? 

And  he  burned  them  as  waste  paper. 


95 


MY  valiant  fight !     For  I  call  it  valiant, 

With  my  father's  beliefs  from  old  Virginia : 

Hating  slavery,  but  no  less  war. 

I,  full  of  spirit,  audacity,  courage 

Thrown  into  life  here  in  Spoon  River, 

With  its  dominant  forces  drawn  from  New  England, 

Republicans,  Calvinists,  merchants,  bankers, 

Hating  me,  yet  fearing  my  arm. 

With  wife  and  children  heavy  to  carry  — 

Yet  fruits  of  my  very  zest  of  life. 

Stealing  odd  pleasures  that  cost  me  prestige, 

And  reaping  evils  I  had  not  sown ; 

Foe  of  the  church  with  its  charnel  dankness, 

Friend  of  the  human  touch  of  the  tavern ; 

Tangled  with  fates  all  alien  to  me, 

Deserted  by  hands  I  called  my  own. 

Then  just  as  I  felt  my  giant  strength 

Short  of  breath,  behold  my  children 

Had  wound  their  lives  in  stranger  gardens  — 

And  I  stood  alone,  as  I  started  alone ! 

My  valiant  life !     I  died  on  my  feet, 

Facing  the  silence  —  facing  the  prospect 

That  no  one  would  know  of  the  fight  I  made. 

96 


SUPPOSE  you  stood  just  five  feet  two, 

And  had  worked  your  way  as  a  grocery  clerk, 

Studying  law  by  candle  light 

Until  you  became  an  attorney  at  law  ? 

And  then  suppose  through  your  diligence, 

And  regular  church  attendance, 

You  became  attorney  for  Thomas  Rhodes, 

Collecting  notes  and  mortgages, 

And  representing  all  the  widows 

In  the  Probate  Court  ?    And  through  it  all 

They  jeered  at  your  size,  and  laughed  at  your  clothes 

And  your  polished  boots  ?     And  then  suppose 

You  became  the  County  Judge  ? 

And  Jefferson  Howard  and  Kinsey  Keene, 

And  Harmon  Whitney,  and  all  the  giants 

Who  had  sneered  at  you,  were  forced  to  stand 

Before  the  bar  and  say  "Your  Honor"  — 

Well,  don't  you  think  it  was  natural 

That  I  made  it  hard  for  them  ? 


97 


albert 

JONAS  KEENE  thought  his  lot  a  hard  one 

Because  his  children  were  all  failures. 

But  I  know  of  a  fate  more  trying  than  that : 

It  is  to  be  a  failure  while  your  children  are  successes. 

For  I  raised  a  brood  of  eagles 

Who  flew  away  at  last,  leaving  me 

A  crow  on  the  abandoned  bough. 

Then,  with  the  ambition  to  prefix  Honorable  to  my 

name, 

And  thus  to  win  my  children's  admiration, 
I  ran  for  County  Superintendent  of  Schools, 
Spending  my  accumulations  to  win  —  and  lost. 
That  fall  my  daughter  received  first  prize  in  Paris 
For  her  picture,  entitled,  "The  Old  Mill"  — 
(It  was  of  the  water  mill  before  Henry  Wilkin  put  in 

steam.) 
The  feeling  that  I  was  not  worthy  of  her  finished  me. 


WHY  did  Albert  Schirding  kill  himself 

Trying  to  be  County  Superintendent  of  Schools, 

Blest  as  he  was  with  the  means  of  life 

And  wonderful  children,  bringing  him  honor 

Ere  he  was  sixty  ? 

If  even  one  of  my  boys  could  have  run  a  news-stand, 

Or  one  of  my  girls  could  have  married  a  decent  man, 

I  should  not  have  walked  in  the  rain 

And  jumped  into  bed  with  clothes  all  wet, 

Refusing  medical  aid. 


99 


Cugrnifl 

HAVE  any  of  you,  passers-by, 

Had  an  old  tooth  that  was  an  unceasing  discomfort  ? 

Or  a  pain  in  the  side  that  never  quite  left  you  ? 

Or  a  malignant  growth  that  grew  with  time  ? 

So  that  even  in  profoundest  slumber 

There  was  shadowy  consciousness  or  the  phantom  of 

thought 

Of  the  tooth,  the  side,  the  growth  ? 
Even  so  thwarted  love,  or  defeated  ambition, 
Or  a  blunder  in  life  which  mixed  your  life 
Hopelessly  to  the  end, 
Will  like  a  tooth,  or  a  pain  in  the  side, 
Float  through  your  dreams  in  the  final  sleep 
Till  perfect  freedom  from  the  earth-sphere 
Comes  to  you  as  one  who  wakes 
Healed  and  glad  in  the  morning ! 


100 


get  Boto 

THEY  got  me  into  the  Sunday-school 

In  Spoon  River 

And  tried  to  get  me  to  drop  Confucius  for  Jesus. 

I  could  have  been  no  worse  off 

If  I  had  tried  to  get  them  to  drop  Jesus  for  Confucius. 

For,  without  any  warning,  as  if  it  were  a  prank, 

And  sneaking  up  behind  me,  Harry  Wiley, 

The  minister's  son,  caved  my  ribs  into  my  lungs, 

With  a  blow  of  his  fist. 

Now  I  shall  never  sleep  with  my  ancestors  in  Pekin, 

And  no  children  shall  worship  at  my  grave. 


101 


RICH,  honored  by  my  fellow  citizens, 

The  father  of  many  children,  born  of  a  noble  mother, 

All  raised  there 

In  the  great  mansion-house,  at  the  edge  of  town. 

Note  the  cedar  tree  on  the  lawn  ! 

I  sent  all  the  boys  to  Ann  Arbor,  all  the  girls  to 

Rockford, 
The  while  my  life  went  on,  getting  more  riches  and 

honors  — 

Resting  under  my  cedar  tree  at  evening. 
The  years  went  on. 
I  sent  the  girls  to  Europe ; 
I  dowered  them  when  married. 
I  gave  the  boys  money  to  start  in  business. 
They  were  strong  children,  promising  as  apples 
Before  the  bitten  places  show. 
But  John  fled  the  country  in  disgrace. 
Jenny  died  in  child-birth  — 
I  sat  under  my  cedar  tree. 
Harry  killed  himself  after  a  debauch, 
Susan  was  divorced  — 
I  sat  under  my  cedar  tree. 

IO2 


Paul  was  invalided  from  over  study, 

Mary  became  a  recluse  at  home  for  love  of  a  man  — 

I  sat  under  my  cedar  tree. 

All  were  gone,  or  broken-winged  or  devoured    by 

life  — 

I  sat  under  my  cedar  tree. 
My  mate,  the  mother  of  them,  was  taken  — 
I  sat  under  my  cedar  tree, 
Till  ninety  years  were  tolled. 
O  maternal  Earth,  which  rocks  the  fallen  leaf  to 

sleep ! 


103 


IJOaul 

DEAR  Jane !   dear  winsome  Jane  ! 

How  you  stole  in  the  room  (where  I  lay  so  ill) 

In  your  nurse's  cap  and  linen  cuffs, 

And  took  my  hand  and  said  with  a  smile : 

"You  are  not  so  ill  —  you'll  soon  be  well." 

And  how  the  liquid  thought  of  your  eyes 

Sank  in  my  eyes  like  dew  that  slips 

Into  the  heart  of  a  flower. 

Dear  Jane  !  the  whole  McNeely  fortune 

Could  not  have  bought  your  care  of  me, 

By  day  and  night,  and  night  and  day; 

Nor  paid  for  your  smile,  nor  the  warmth  of  your  soul, 

In  your  little  hands  laid  on  my  brow. 

Jane,  till  the  flame  of  life  went  out 

In  the.  dark  above  the  disk  of  night 

I  longed  and  hoped  to  be  well  again 

To  pillow  my  head  on  your  little  breasts, 

And  hold  you  fast  in  a  clasp  of  love  — 

Did  my  father  provide  for  you  when  he  died, 

Jane,  dear  Jane  ? 


104 


PASSER-BY, 

To  love  is  to  find  your  own  soul 

Through  the  soul  of  the  beloved  one. 

When  the  beloved  one  withdraws  itself  from  your 

soul 

Then  you  have  lost  your  soul. 
It  is  written  :   "I  have  a  friend, 
But  my  sorrow  has  no  friend." 
Hence  my  long  years  of  solitude  at  the  home  of  my 

father, 

Trying  to  get  myself  back, 
And  to  turn  my  sorrow  into  a  supremer  self. 
But  there  was  my  father  with  his  sorrows, 
Sitting  under  the  cedar  tree, 
A  picture  that  sank  into  my  heart  at  last 
Bringing  infinite  repose. 
Oh,  ye  souls  who  have  made  life 
Fragrant  and  white  as  tube  roses 
From  earth's  dark  soil, 
Eternal  peace  1 


105 


SDaniel 

WHEN  I  went  to  the  city,  Mary  McNeely, 

I  meant  to  return  for  you,  yes  I  did. 

But  Laura,  my  landlady's  daughter, 

Stole  into  my  life  somehow,  and  won  me  away. 

Then  after  some  years  whom  should  I  meet 

But  Georgine  Miner  from  Niles  —  a  sprout 

Of  the  free  love,  Fourierist  gardens  that  flourished 

Before  the  war  all  over  Ohio. 

Her  dilettante  lover  had  tired  of  her, 

And  she  turned  to  me  for  strength  and  solace. 

She  was  some  kind  of  a  crying  thing 

One  takes  in  one's  arms,  and  all  at  once 

It  slimes  your  face  with  its  running  nose, 

And  voids  its  essence  all  over  you ; 

Then  bites  your  hand  and  springs  away. 

And  there  you  stand  bleeding  and  smelling  to  heaven  ! 

Why,  Mary  McNeely,  I  was  not  worthy 

To  kiss  the  hem  of  your  robe ! 


106 


A  STEP-MOTHER  drove  me  from  home,  embittering 
me.  n  ^ 

A  squaw-man,  a  flane'ur  and  dilettante  took  my  vir- 
tue. 

For  years  I  was  his  mistress  —  no  one  knew. 

I  learned  from  him  the  parasite  cunning 

With  which  I  moved  with  the  bluffs,  like  a  flea  on  a 
dog. 

All  the  time  I  was  nothing  but  "very  private"  with 
different  men. 

Then  Daniel,  the  radical,  had  me  for  years. 

His  sister  called  me  his  mistress ; 

And  Daniel  wrote  me :  "Shameful  word,  soiling  our 
beautiful  love!" 

But  my  anger  coiled,  preparing  its  fangs. 

My  Lesbian  friend  next  took  a  hand. 

She  hated  Daniel's  sister. 

And  Daniel  despised  her  midget  husband. 

And  she  saw  a  chance  for  a  poisonous  thrust : 

I  must  complain  to  the  wife  of  Daniel's  pursuit ! 

But  before  I  did  that  I  begged  him  to  fly  to  London 
with  me. 

107 


"Why  not  stay  in  the  city  just  as  we  have  ?"  he 

asked. 

Then  I  turned  submarine  and  revenged  his  repulse 
In  the  arms  of  my  dilettante  friend.     Then  up  to 

the  surface, 

Bearing  the  letter  that  Daniel  wrote  me, 
To  prove  my  honor  was  all  intact,  showing  it  to  his 

wife, 

My  Lesbian  friend  and  everyone. 
If  Daniel  had  only  shot  me  dead  ! 
Instead  of  stripping  me  naked  of  lies, 
A  harlot  in  body  and  soul ! 


108 


VERY  well,  you  liberals, 

And  navigators  into  realms  intellectual, 

You  sailors  through  heights  imaginative, 

Blown  about  by  erratic  currents,  tumbling  into  air 

pockets, 

You  Margaret  Fuller  Slacks,  Petits, 
And  Tennessee  Claflin  Shopes  — 
You  found  with  all  your  boasted  wisdom 
How  hard  at  the  last  it  is 

To  keep  the  soul  from  splitting  into  cellular  atoms. 
While  we,  seekers  of  earth's  treasures, 
Getters  and  hoarders  of  gold, 
Are  self-contained,  compact,  harmonized, 
Even  to  the  end. 


109 


3f|Da  Cfcitfeen 

AFTER  I  had  attended  lectures 

At  our  Chautauqua,  and  studied  French 

For  twenty  years,  committing  the  grammar 

Almost  by  heart, 

I  thought  I'd  take  a  trip  to  Paris 

To  give  my  culture  a  final  polish. 

So  I  went  to  Peoria  for  a  passport  — 

(Thomas  Rhodes  was  on  the  train  that  morning.) 

And  there  the  clerk  of  the  district  Court 

Made  me  swear  to  support  and  defend 

The  constitution  —  yes,  even  me  — 

Who  couldn't  defend  or  support  it  at  all ! 

And  what  do  you  think  ?    That  very  morning 

The  Federal  Judge,  in  the  very  next  room 

To  the  room  where  I  took  the  oath, 

Decided  the  constitution 

Exempted  Rhodes  from  paying  taxes 

For  the  water  works  of  Spoon  River ! 


no 


}3frmmm,  tlir  artist 

I  LOST  my  patronage  in  Spoon  River 

From  trying  to  put  my  mind  in  the  camera 

To  catch  the  soul  of  the  person. 

The  very  best  picture  I  ever  took 

Was  of  Judge  Somers,  attorney  at  law. 

He  sat  upright  and  had  me  pause 

Till  he  got  his  cross-eye  straight. 

Then  when  he  was  ready  he  said  "all  right." 

And  I  yell,  "overruled"  and  his  eye  turned  up. 

And  I  caught  him  just  as  he  used  to  look 

When  saying  "I  except." 


Ill 


WHILE  I  was  handling  Dom  Pedro 

I  got  at  the  thing  that  divides  the  race  between  men 

who  are 
For  singing  "Turkey  in  the  straw"  or  "There  is  a 

fountain  filled  with  blood"  — 
(Like  Rile  Potter  used  to  sing  it  over  at  Concord) ; 
For  cards,  or  for  Rev.  Peet's  lecture  on  the  holy 

land; 
For   skipping   the   light   fantastic,    or   passing   the 

plate; 

For  Pinafore,  or  a  Sunday  school  cantata; 
For  men,  or  for  money ; 
For  the  people  or  against  them. 
This  was  it : 

Rev.  Peet  and  the  Social  Purity  Club, 
Headed  by  Ben  Pander's  wife, 
Went  to  the  Village  trustees, 
And  asked  them  to  make  me  take  Dom  Pedro 
From  the  barn  of  Wash  MeNeely,  there  at  the  edge 

of  town, 

To  a  barn  outside  of  the  corporation, 
On  the  ground  that  it  corrupted  public  morals. 
Well,  Ben  Pantier  and  Fiddler  Jones  saved  the  day  — 
They  thought  it  a  slam  on  colts. 

112 


Uobrrt 

I  GREW  spiritually  fat  living  off  the  souls  of  men. 

If  I  saw  a  soul  that  was  strong 

I  wounded  its  pride  and  devoured  its  strength. 

The  shelters  of  friendship  knew  my  cunning, 

For  where  I  could  steal  a  friend  I  did  so. 

And  wherever  I  could  enlarge  my  power 

By  undermining  ambition,  I  did  so, 

Thus  to  make  smooth  my  own. 

And  to  triumph  over  other  souls, 

Just  to  assert  and  prove  my  superior  strength, 

Was  with  me  a  delight, 

The  keen  exhilaration  of  soul  gymnastics. 

Devouring  souls,  I  should  have  lived  forever. 

But  their  undigested  remains  bred  in  me  a  deadly 

nephritis, 

With  fear,  restlessness,  sinking  spirits, 
Hatred,  suspicion,  vision  disturbed. 
I  collapsed  at  last  with  a  shriek. 
Remember  the  acorn ; 
It  does  not  devour  other  acorns. 


Wiettwm 


I  WAS  a  peasant  girl  from  Germany, 

Blue-eyed,  rosy,  happy  and  strong. 

And  the  first  place  I  worked  was  at  Thomas  Greene's. 

On  a  summer's  day  when  she  was  away 

He  stole  into  the  kitchen  and  took  me 

Right  in  his  arms  and  kissed  me  on  my  throat, 

I  turning  my  head.     Then  neither  of  us 

Seemed  to  know  what  happened. 

And  I  cried  for  what  would  become  of  me. 

And  cried  and  cried  as  my  secret  began  to  show. 

One  day  Mrs.  Greene  said  she  understood, 

And  would  make  no  trouble  for  me, 

And,  being  childless,  would  adopt  it. 

(He  had  given  her  a  farm  to  be  still.) 

So  she  hid  in  the  house  and  sent  out  rumors, 

As  if  it  were  going  to  happen  to  her. 

And  all  went  well  and  the  child  was  born  —  They 

were  so  kind  to  me. 

Later  I  married  Gus  Wertman,  and  years  passed. 
But  —  at  political  rallies  when  sitters-by  thought  I 

was  crying 

At  the  eloquence  of  Hamilton  Greene  — 
That  was  not  it. 
No  !     I  wanted  to  say  : 
That's  my  son  !     That's  my  son  1 

114 


Hamilton  (Sreene 

I  WAS  the  only  child  of  Frances  Harris  of  Virginia 

And  Thomas  Greene  of  Kentucky, 

Of  valiant  and  honorable  blood  both. 

To  them  I  owe  all  that  I  became, 

Judge,  member  of  Congress,  leader  in  the  State. 

From  my  mother  I  inherited 

Vivacity,  fancy,  language; 

From  my  father  will,  judgment,  logic. 

All  honor  to  them 

For  what  service  I  was  to  the  people ! 


"5 


(Ernest 

MY  mind  was  a  mirror : 

It  saw  what  it  saw,  it  knew  what  it  knew. 

In  youth  my  mind  was  just  a  mirror 

In  a  rapidly  flying  car, 

Which  catches  and  loses  bits  of  the  landscape. 

Then  in  time 

Great  scratches  were  made  on  the  mirror, 

Letting  the  outside  world  come  in, 

And  letting  my  inner  self  look  out. 

For  this  is  the  birth  of  the  soul  in  sorrow, 

A  birth  with  gains  and  losses. 

The  mind  sees  the  world  as  a  thing  apart, 

And  the  soul  makes  the  world  at  one  with  itself. 

A  mirror  scratched  reflects  no  image  — 

And  this  is  the  silence  of  wisdom. 


116 


Ifcoger 

OH  many  times  did  Ernest  Hyde  and  I 

Argue  about  the  freedom  of  the  will. 

My  favorite  metaphor  was  Prickett's  cow 

Roped  out  to  grass,  and  free  you  know  as  far 

As  the  length  of  the  rope. 

One  day  while  arguing  so,  watching  the  cow 

Pull  at  the  rope  to  get  beyond  the  circle 

Which  she  had  eaten  bare, 

Out  came  the  stake,  and  tossing  up  her  head, 

She  ran  for  us. 

"What's   that,   free-will   or   what?"    said   Ernest, 

running. 
I  fell  just  as  she  gored  me  to  my  death. 


117 


NOT  character,  not  fortitude,  not  patience 

Were  mine,  the  which  the  village  thought  I  had 

In  bearing  with  my  wife,  while  preaching  on, 

Doing  the  work  God  chose  for  me. 

I  loathed  her  as  a  termagant,  as  a  wanton. 

I  knew  of  her  adulteries,  every  one. 

But  even  so,  if  I  divorced  the  woman 

I  must  forsake  the  ministry. 

Therefore  to  do  God's  work  and  have  it  crop, 

I  bore  with  her ! 

So  lied  I  to  myself! 

So  lied  I  to  Spoon  River ! 

Yet  I  tried  lecturing,  ran  for  the  legislature, 

Canvassed  for  books,  with  just  the  thought  in  mind  : 

If  I  make  money  thus,  I  will  divorce  her. 


118 


' 


THE  secret  of  the  stars,  —  gravitation. 
The  secret  of  the  earth,  —  layers  of  rock. 
The  secret  of  the  soil,  —  to  receive  seed. 
The  secret  of  the  seed,  —  the  germ. 
The  secret  of  man,  —  the  sower. 
The  secret  of  woman,  —  the  soil. 
My  secret :  Under  a  mound  that  you  shall  never 
find. 


119 


fl&am  cClciraucl) 

I  WAS  crushed  between  Altgeld  and  Armour. 

I  lost  many  friends,  much  time  and  money 

Fighting  for  Altgeld  whom  Editor  Whedon 

Denounced    as    the    candidate    of    gamblers    and 
anarchists. 

Then  Armour  started  to  ship  dressed  meat  to  Spoon 
River, 

Forcing  me  to  shut  down  my  slaughter-house, 

And  my  butcher  shop  went  all  to  pieces. 

The  new  forces  of  Altgeld  and  Armour  caught  me 

At  the  same  time. 

I  thought  it  due  me,  to  recoup  the  money  I  lost 

And  to  make  good  the  friends  that  left  me, 

For  the  Governor  to  appoint  me  Canal  Commis- 
sioner. 

Instead  he  appointed  Whedon  of  the  Spoon  River 
ArguSy 

So  I  ran  for  the  legislature  and  was  elected. 

I  said  to  hell  with  principle  and  sold  my  vote 

On  Charles  T.  Yerkes'  street-car  franchise. 

Of  course  I  was  one  of  the  fellows  they  caught. 

Who  was  it,  Armour,  Altgeld  or  myself 

That  ruined  me  ? 

120 


BartUtc 

A  CHAPLAIN  in  the  army, 

A  chaplain  in  the  prisons, 

An  exhorter  in  Spoon  River, 

Drunk  with  divinity,  Spoon  River  — 

Yet  bringing  poor  Eliza  Johnson  to  shame, 

And  myself  to  scorn  and  wretchedness. 

But  why  will  you  never  see  that  love  of  women, 

And  even  love  of  wine, 

Are  the  stimulants  by  which  the  soul,  hungering  for 

divinity, 

Reaches  the  ecstatic  vision 
And  sees  the  celestial  outposts  ? 
Only  after  many  trials  for  strength, 
Only  when  all  stimulants  fail, 
Does  the  aspiring  soul 
By  its  own  sheer  power 
Find  the  divine 
By  resting  upon  itself. 


121 


Amelia  aarricfe 

YES,  here  I  lie  close  to  a  stunted  rose  bush 

In  a  forgotten  place  near  the  fence 

Where  the  thickets  from  Siever's  woods 

Have  crept  over,  growing  sparsely. 

And  you,  you  are  a  leader  in  New  York, 

The  wife  of  a  noted  millionaire, 

A  name  in  the  society  columns, 

Beautiful,  admired,  magnified  perhaps 

By  the  mirage  of  distance. 

You  have  succeeded,  I  have  failed 

In  the  eyes  of  the  world. 

You  are  alive,  I  am  dead. 

Yet  I  know  that  I  vanquished  your  spirit ; 

And  I  know  that  lying  here  far  from  you, 

Unheard  of  among  your  great  friends 

In  the  brilliant  world  where  you  move, 

I  am  really  the  unconquerable  power  over  your  life 

That  robs  it  of  complete  triumph. 


112 


2flol)n  H?ancoefe 

As  to  democracy,  fellow  citizens, 

Are  you  not  prepared  to  admit 

That  I,  who  inherited  riches  and  was  to  the  manner 

born, 

Was  second  to  none  in  Spoon  River 
In  my  devotion  to  the  cause  of  Liberty  ? 
While  my  contemporary,  Anthony  Findlay, 
Born  in  a  shanty  and  beginning  life 
As  a  water  carrier  to  the  section  hands, 
Then  becoming  a  section  hand  when  he  was  grown, 
Afterwards  foreman  of  the  gang,  until  he  rose 
To  the  superintendency  of  the  railroad, 
Living  in  Chicago, 
Was  a  veritable  slave  driver, 
Grinding  the  faces  of  labor, 
And  a  bitter  enemy  of  democracy. 
And  I  say  to  you,  Spoon  River, 
And  to  you,  O  republic, 
Beware  of  the  man  who  rises  to  power 
From  one  suspender. 


123 


BOTH  for  the  country  and  for  the  man, 

And  for  a  country  as  well  as  a  man, 

'Tis  better  to  be  feared  than  loved. 

And  if  this  country  would  rather  part 

With  the  friendship  of  every  nation 

Than  surrender  its  wealth, 

I  say  of  a  man  'tis  worse  to  lose 

Money  than  friends. 

And  I  rend  the  curtain  that  hides  the  soul 

Of  an  ancient  aspiration  : 

When  the  people  clamor  for  freedom 

They  really  seek  for  power  o'er  the  strong. 

I,  Anthony  Findlay,  rising  to  greatness 

From  a  humble  water  carrier, 

Until  I  could  say  to  thousands  "Come," 

And  say  to  thousands  "Go," 

Affirm  that  a  nation  can  never  be  good, 

Or  achieve  the  good, 

Where  the  strong  and  the  wise  have  not  the  rod 

To  use  on  the  dull  and  weak. 


124 


Cabante 

NEITHER  spite,  fellow  citizens, 

Nor  forgetfulness  of  the  shiftlessness, 

And  the  lawlessness  and  waste 

Under  democracy's  rule  in  Spoon  River 

Made  me  desert  the  party  of  law  and  order 

And  lead  the  liberal  party. 

Fellow  citizens  !     I  saw  as  one  with  second  sight 

That  every  man  of  the  millions  of  men 

Who  give  themselves  to  Freedom, 

And  fail  while  Freedom  fails, 

Enduring  waste  and  lawlessness, 

And  the  rule  of  the  weak  and  the  blind, 

Dies  in  the  hope  of  building  earth, 

Like  the  coral  insect,  for  the  temple 

To  stand  on  at  the  last. 

And  I  swear  that  Freedom  will  wage  to  the  end 

The  war  for  making  every  soul 

Wise  and  strong  and  as  fit  to  rule 

As  Plato's  lofty  guardians 

In  a  world  republic  girdled ! 


125 


(Die  UnUnoum 

YE  aspiring  ones,  listen  to  the  story  of  the  unknown 

Who  lies  here  with  no  stone  to  mark  the  place. 

As  a  boy  reckless  and  wanton, 

Wandering  with  gun  in  hand  through  the  forest 

Near  the  mansion  of  Aaron  Hatfield, 

I  shot  a  hawk  perched  on  the  top 

Of  a  dead  tree. 

He  fell  with  guttural  cry 

At  my  feet,  his  wing  broken. 

Then  I  put  him  in  a  cage 

Where  he  lived  many  days  cawing  angrily  at  me 

When  I  offered  him  food. 

Daily  I  search  the  realms  of  Hades 

For  the  soul  of  the  hawk, 

That  I  may  offer  him  the  friendship 

Of  one  whom  life  wounded  and  caged. 


126 


SUrranorr  CljrocUmoiton 

IN  youth  my  wings  were  strong  and  tireless, 

But  I  did  not  know  the  mountains. 

In  age  I  knew  the  mountains 

But  my  weary  wings  could  not  follow  my  vision 

Genius  is  wisdom  and  youth. 


127 


3ionatljan 

AFTER  you  have  enriched  your  soul 

To  the  highest  point, 

With  books,  thought,  suffering,  the  understanding 

of  many  personalities, 
The  power  to  interpret  glances,  silences, 
The  pauses  in  momentous  transformations, 
The  genius  of  divination  and  prophecy ; 
So  that  you  feel  able  at  times  to  hold  the  world 
In  the  hollow  of  your  hand ; 
Then,  if,  by  the  crowding  of  so  many  powers 
Into  the  compass  of  your  soul, 
Your  soul  takes  fire, 
And  in  the  conflagration  of  your  soul 
The  evil  of  the  world  is  lighted  up  and  made  clear  — 
Be  thankful  if  in  that  hour  of  supreme  vision 
Life  does  not  fiddle. 

*  Author  of  THE  SPOONIAD  —  see  page  273. 


128 


Wtooto  Spcjfarlane 

I  WAS  the  Widow  McFarlane, 

Weaver  of  carpets  for  all  the  village. 

And  I  pity  you  still  at  the  loom  of  life, 

You  who  are  singing  to  the  shuttle 

And  lovingly  watching  the  work  of  your  hands, 

If  you  reach  the  day  of  hate,  of  terrible  truth. 

For  the  cloth  of  life  is  woven,  you  know, 

To  a  pattern  hidden  under  the  loom  — 

A  pattern  you  never  see ! 

And  you  weave  high-hearted,  singing,  singing, 

You  guard  the  threads  of  love  and  friendship 

For  noble  figures  in  gold  and  purple. 

And  long  after  other  eyes  can  see 

You  have  woven  a  moon-white  strip  of  cloth, 

You  laugh  in  your  strength,  for  Hope  o'erlays  it 

With  shapes  of  love  and  beauty. 

The  loom  stops  short !    The  pattern's  out ! 

You're   alone   in   the   room !     You   have   woven   a 

shroud ! 
And  hate  of  it  lays  you  in  it ! 


129 


Carl  ^amblin 

THE  press  of  the  Spoon  River  Clarion  was  wrecked, 

And  I  was  tarred  and  feathered, 

For  publishing  this  on  the  day  the  Anarchists  were 

hanged  in  Chicago : 

"I  saw  a  beautiful  woman  with  bandaged  eyes 
Standing  on  the  steps  of  a  marble  temple. 
Great  multitudes  passed  in  front  of  her, 
Lifting  their  faces  to  her  imploringly. 
In  her  left  hand  she  held  a  sword. 
She  was  brandishing  the  sword, 
Sometimes  striking  a  child,  again  a  laborer, 
Again  a  slinking  woman,  again  a  lunatic. 
In  her  right  hand  she  held  a  scale ; 
Into  the  scale  pieces  of  gold  were  tossed 
By  those  who  dodged  the  strokes  of  the  sword. 
A  man  in  a  black  gown  read  from  a  manuscript : 
'She  is  no  respecter  of  persons/ 
Then  a  youth  wearing  a  red  cap 
Leaped  to  her  side  and  snatched  away  the  bandage. 
And  lo,  the  lashes  had  been  eaten  away 
From  the  oozy  eye-lids ; 

130 


The  eye-balls  were  seared  with  a  milky  mucus ; 

The  madness  of  a  dying  soul 

Was  written  on  her  face  — 

But  the  multitude  saw  why  she  wore  the  bandage." 


(EtJttor 

To  be  able  to  see  every  side  of  every  question ; 

To  be  on  every  side,  to  be  everything,  to  be  nothing 

long; 

To  pervert  truth,  to  ride  it  for  a  purpose, 
To  use  great  feelings  and  passions  of  the  human 

family 

For  base  designs,  for  cunning  ends, 
To  wear  a  mask  like  the  Greek  actors  — 
Your  eight-page  paper  —  behind  which  you  huddle, 
Bawling  through  the  megaphone  of  big  type : 
"This  is  I,  the  giant." 

Thereby  also  living  the  life  of  a  sneak-thief, 
Poisoned  with  the  anonymous  words 
Of  your  clandestine  soul. 
To  scratch  dirt  over  scandal  for  money, 
And  exhume  it  to  the  winds  for  revenge, 
Or  to  sell  papers, 

Crushing  reputations,  or  bodies,  if  need  be, 
To  win  at  any  cost,  save  your  own  life. 
To  glory  in  demoniac  power,  ditching  civilization, 

132 


As  a  paranoiac  boy  puts  a  log  on  the  track 

And  derails  the  express  train. 

To  be  an  editor,  as  I  was. 

Then  to  lie  here  close  by  the  river  over  the  place 

Where  the  sewage  flows  from  the  village, 

And  the  empty  cans  and  garbage  are  dumped, 

And  abortions  are  hidden. 


133 


Cugene  Carman 

RHODES'  slave !     Selling  shoes  and  gingham, 
Flour  and  bacon,  overalls,  clothing,  all  day  long 
For  fourteen  hours  a  day  for  three  hundred  and  thir- 
teen days 

For  more  than  twenty  years. 

Saying  "Yes'm"  and  "Yes,  sir"  and  "Thank  you" 
A  thousand  times  a  day,  and  all  for  fifty  dollars  a 

month. 

Living  in  this  stinking  room  in  the  rattle-trap  "Com- 
mercial." 

And  compelled  to  go  to  Sunday  School,  and  to  listen 
To  the  Rev.  Abner  Peet  one  hundred  and  four  times 

a  year 

For  more  than  an  hour  at  a  time, 
Because  Thomas  Rhodes  ran  the  church 
As  well  as  the  store  and  the  bank. 
So  while  I  was  tying  my  neck-tie  that  morning 
I  suddenly  saw  myself  in  the  glass  : 
My  hair  all  gray,  my  face  like  a  sodden  pie. 
So  I  cursed  and  cursed :  You  damned  old  thing ! 
You  cowardly  dog !     You  rotten  pauper ! 
You  Rhodes'  slave !    Till  Roger  Baughman 
Thought  I  was  having  a  fight  with  some  one, 
And  looked  through  the  transom  just  in  time 
To  see  me  fall  on  the  floor  in  a  heap 
From  a  broken  vein  in  my  head. 

134 


Clarence  jfatocett 

THE  sudden  death  of  Eugene  Carman 

Put  me  in  line  to  be  promoted  to  fifty  dollars  a  month, 

And  I  told  my  wife  and  children  that  night. 

But  it  didn't  come,  and  so  I  thought 

Old  Rhodes  suspected  me  of  stealing 

The  blankets  I  took  and  sold  on  the  side 

For  money  to  pay  a  doctor's  bill  for  my  little  girl. 

Then  like  a  bolt  old  Rhodes  accused  me, 

And  promised  me  mercy  for  my  family's  sake 

If  I  confessed,  and  so  I  confessed, 

And  begged  him  to  keep  it  out  of  the  papers, 

And  I  asked  the  editors,  too. 

That  night  at  home  the  constable  took  me 

And  every  paper,  except  the  Clarion, 

Wrote  me  up  as  a  thief 

Because  old  Rhodes  was  an  advertiser 

And  wanted  to  make  an  example  of  me. 

Oh !  well,  you  know  how  the  children  cried, 

And  how  my  wife  pitied  and  hated  me, 

And  how  I  came  to  lie  here. 


135 


m.  !Llo£D  Garrison  £>tatrtrarb 

VEGETARIAN,  non-resistant,  free-thinker,  in  ethics  a 

Christian ; 

Orator  apt  at  the  rhine-stone  rhythm  of  Ingersoll ; 
Carnivorous,  avenger,  believer  and  pagan ; 
Continent,    promiscuous,    changeable,    treacherous, 

vain, 
Proud,  with  the  pride  that  makes  struggle  a  thing 

for  laughter ; 

With  heart  cored  out  by  the  worm  of  theatric  despair ; 
Wearing  the  coat  of  indifference  to  hide  the  shame  of 

defeat ; 

I,  child  of  the  abolitionist  idealism  — 
A  sort  of  Brand  in  a  birth  of  half-and-half. 
What  other  thing  could  happen  when  I  defended 
The  patriot  scamps  who  burned  the  court  house, 
That  Spoon  River  might  have  a  new  one, 
Than    plead   them   guilty  ?    When    Kinsey    Keene 

drove  through 

The  card-board  mask  of  my  life  with  a  spear  of  light, 
What  could  I  do  but  slink  away,  like  the  beast  of 

myself 

Which  I  raised  from  a  whelp,  to  a  corner  and  growl. 
The  pyramid  of  my  life  was  nought  but  a  dune, 
Barren  and  formless,  spoiled  at  last  by  the  storm. 

136 


EVERYONE  laughed  at  Col.  Prichard 

For  buying  an  engine  so  powerful 

That  it  wrecked  itself,  and  wrecked  the  grinder 

He  ran  it  with. 

But  here  is  a  joke  of  cosmic  size  : 

The  urge  of  nature  that  made  a  man 

Evolve  from  his  brain  a  spiritual  life  — 

Oh  miracle  of  the  world  !  — 

The  very  same  brain  with  which  the  ape  and  wolf 

Get  food  and  shelter  and  procreate  themselves. 

Nature  has  made  man  do  this, 

In  a  world  where  she  gives  him  nothing  to  do 

After  all  —  (though  the  strength  of  his  soul  goes 

round 

In  a  futile  waste  of  power, 
To  gear  itself  to  the  mills  of  the  gods)  — 
But  get  food  and  shelter  and  procreate  himself! 


137 


Ualpij  UfjoDts 

ALL  they  said  was  true : 

I  wrecked  my  father's  bank  with  my  loans 

To  dabble  in  wheat;   but  this  was  true  — 

I  was  buying  wheat  for  him  as  well, 

Who  couldn't  margin  the  deal  in  his  name 

Because  of  his  church  relationship. 

And  while  George  Reece  was  serving  his  term 

I  chased  the  will-o'-the-wisp  of  women, 

And  the  mockery  of  wine  in  New  York. 

It's  deathly  to  sicken  of  wine  and  women 

When  nothing  else  is  left  in  life. 

But  suppose  your  head  is  gray,  and  bowed 

On  a  table  covered  with  acrid  stubs 

Of  cigarettes  and  empty  glasses, 

And  a  knock  is  heard,  and  you  know  it's  the  knock 

So  long  drowned  out  by  popping  corks 

And  the  pea-cock  screams  of  demireps  — 

And  you  look  up,  and  there's  your  Theft, 

Who  waited  until  your  head  was  gray, 

And  your  heart  skipped  beats  to  say  to  you : 

The  game  is  ended.     I've  called  for  you. 

Go  out  on  Broadway  and  be  run  over, 

They'll  ship  you  back  to  Spoon  River. 

138 


IT  was  just  like  everything  else  in  life : 

Something  outside  myself  drew  me  down, 

My  own  strength  never  failed  me. 

Why,  there  was  the  time  I  earned  the  money 

With  which  to  go  away  to  school, 

And  my  father  suddenly  needed  help 

And  I  had  to  give  him  all  of  it. 

Just  so  it  went  till  I  ended  up 

A  man-of-all-work  in  Spoon  River. 

Thus  when  I  got  the  water-tower  cleaned, 

And  they  hauled  me  up  the  seventy  feet, 

I  unhooked  the  rope  from  my  waist, 

And  laughingly  flung  my  giant  arms 

Over  the  smooth  steel  lips  of  the  top  of  the  tower 

But  they  slipped  from  the  treacherous  slime. 

And  down,  down,  down,  I  plunged 

Through  bellowing  darkness ! 


139 


Huberts 

I  WAS  sick,  but  more  than  that,  I  was  mad 

At  the  crooked  police,  and  the  crooked  game  of  life. 

So  I  wrote  to  the  Chief  of  Police  at  Peoria  : 

"I  am  here  in  my  girlhood  home  in  Spoon  River, 

Gradually  wasting  away. 

But  come  and  take  me,  I  killed  the  son 

Of  the  merchant  prince,  in  Madam  Lou's, 

And  the  papers  that  said  he  killed  himself 

In  his  home  while  cleaning  a  hunting  gun  — 

Lied  like  the  devil  to  hush  up  scandal, 

For  the  bribe  of  advertising. 

In  my  room  I  shot  him,  at  Madam  Lou's, 

Because  he  knocked  me  down  when  I  said 

That,  in  spite  of  all  the  money  he  had, 

I'd  see  my  lover  that  night." 


140 


pummel 

I  STAGGERED  on  through  darkness, 

There  was  a  hazy  sky,  a  few  stars 

Which  I  followed  as  best  I  could. 

It  was  nine  o'clock,  I  was  trying  to  get  home. 

But  somehow  I  was  lost, 

Though  really  keeping  the  road. 

Then  I  reeled  through  a  gate  and  into  a  yard, 

And  called  at  the  top  of  my  voice : 

"Oh,  Fiddler!     Oh,  Mr.  Jones  !" 

(I  thought  it  was  his  house  and  he  would  show  me 

the  way  home.) 

But  who  should  step  out  but  A.  D.  Blood, 
In  his  night  shirt,  waving  a  stick  of  wood, 
And  roaring  about  the  cursed  saloons, 
And  the  criminals  they  made  ? 
"You  drunken  Oscar  Hummel,"  he  said, 
As  I  stood  there  weaving  to  and  fro, 
Taking  the  blows  from  the  stick  in  his  hand 
Till  I  dropped  down  dead  at  his  feet. 


141 


SHE  loved  me.    Oh  !  how  she  loved  me ! 

I  never  had  a  chance  to  escape 

From  the  day  she  first  saw  me. 

But  then  after  we  were  married  I  thought 

She  might  prove  her  mortality  and  let  me  out, 

Or  she  might  divorce  me. 

But  few  die,  none  resign. 

Then  I  ran  away  and  was  gone  a  year  on  a  lark. 

But  she  never  complained.    She  said  all  would  be  well, 

That  I  would  return.     And  I  did  return. 

I  told  her  that  while  taking  a  row  in  a  boat 

I  had  been  captured  near  Van  Buren  Street 

By  pirates  on  Lake  Michigan, 

And  kept  in  chains,  so  I  could  not  write  her. 

She  cried  and  kissed  me,  and  said  it  was  cruel, 

Outrageous,  inhuman ! 

I  then  concluded  our  marriage 

Was  a  divine  dispensation 

And  could  not  be  dissolved, 

Except  by  death. 

I  was  right. 

142 


*  ijOurfeaptle 

HE  ran  away  and  was  gone  for  a  year. 

When  he  came  home  he  told  me  the  silly  story 

Of  being  kidnapped  by  pirates  on  Lake  Michigan 

And  kept  in  chains  so  he  could  not  write  me. 

I  pretended  to  believe  it,  though  I  knew  very  well 

What  he  was  doing,  and  that  he  met 

The  milliner,  Mrs.  Williams,  now  and  then 

When  she  went  to  the  city  to  buy  goods,  as  she  said. 

But  a  promise  is  a  promise 

And  marriage  is  marriage, 

And  out  of  respect  for  my  own  character 

I  refused  to  be  drawn  into  a  divorce 

By  the  scheme  of  a  husband  who  had  merely  grown 

tired 
Of  his  marital  vow  and  duty. 


I  WAS  well  known  and  much  beloved 

And  rich,  as  fortunes  are  reckoned 

In  Spoon  River,  where  I  had  lived  and  worked. 

That  was  the  home  for  me, 

Though  all  my  children  had  flown  afar  — 

Which  is  the  way  of  Nature  —  all  but  one. 

The  boy,  who  was  the  baby,  stayed  at  home, 

To  be  my  help  in  my  failing  years 

And  the  solace  of  his  mother. 

But  I  grew  weaker,  as  he  grew  stronger, 

And  he  quarreled  with  me  about  the  business, 

And  his  wife  said  I  was  a  hindrance  to  it ; 

And  he  won  his  mother  to  see  as  he  did, 

Till  they  tore  me  up  to  be  transplanted 

With  them  to  her  girlhood  home  in  Missouri. 

And  so  much  of  my  fortune  was  gone  at  last, 

Though  I  made  the  will  just  as  he  drew  it, 

He  profited  little  by  it. 


144 


MR.  KESSLER,  you  know,  was  in  the  army, 

And  he  drew  six  dollars  a  month  as  a  pension, 

And  stood  on  the  corner  talking  politics, 

Or  sat  at  home  reading  Grant's  Memoirs ; 

And  I  supported  the  family  by  washing, 

Learning  the  secrets  of  all  the  people 

From  their  curtains,  counterpanes,  shirts  and  skirts. 

For  things  that  are  new  grow  old  at  length, 

They're  replaced  with  better  or  none  at  all : 

People  are  prospering  or  falling  back. 

And  rents  and  patches  widen  with  time; 

No  thread  or  needle  can  pace  decay, 

And  there  are  stains  that  baffle  soap, 

And  there  are  colors  that  run  in  spite  of  you, 

Blamed  though  you  are  for  spoiling  a  dress. 

Handkerchiefs,  napery,  have  their  secrets  — 

The  laundress,  Life,  knows  all  about  it. 

And  I,  who  went  to  all  the  funerals 

Held  in  Spoon  River,  swear  I  never 

Saw  a  dead  face  without  thinking  it  looked 

Like  something  washed  and  ironed. 


J^armon 

OUT  of  the  lights  and  roar  of  cities, 

Drifting  down  like  a  spark  in  Spoon  River, 

Burnt  out  with  the  fire  of  drink,  and  broken, 

The  paramour  of  a  woman  I  took  in  self-contempt, 

But  to  hide  a  wounded  pride  as  well. 

To  be  judged  and  loathed  by  a  village  of  little  minds — 

I,  gifted  with  tongues  and  wisdom, 

Sunk  here  to  the  dust  of  the  justice  court, 

A   picker   of  rags   in   the   rubbage   of  spites    and 

wrongs,  — 

I,  whom  fortune  smiled  on !     I  in  a  village, 
Spouting  to  gaping  yokels  pages  of  verse, 
Out  of  the  lore  of  golden  years, 
Or  raising  a  laugh  with  a  flash  of  filthy  wit 
When  they  bought  the  drinks  to  kindle  my  dying 

mind. 

To  be  judged  by  you, 
The  soul  of  me  hidden  from  you, 
With  its  wound  gangrened 
By  love  for  a  wife  who  made  the  wound, 
With  her  cold  white  bosom,  treasonous,  pure   and 

hard, 

146 


Relentless  to  the  last,  when  the  touch  of  her  hand, 
At  any  time,  might  have  cured  me  of  the  typhus, 
Caught  in  the  jungle  of  life  where  many  are  lost. 
And  only  to  think  that  my  soul  could  not  re-act, 
Like  Byron's  did,  in  song,  in  something  noble, 
But  turned  on  itself  like  a  tortured  snake  — 
Judge  me  this  way,  O  world ! 


Bert 

I  WINGED  my  bird, 

Though  he  flew  toward  the  setting  sun ; 

But  just  as  the  shot  rang  out,  he  soared 

Up  and  up  through  the  splinters  of  golden  light, 

Till  he  turned  right  over,  feathers  ruffled, 

With  some  of  the  down  of  him  floating  near, 

And  fell  like  a  plummet  into  the  grass. 

I  tramped  about,  parting  the  tangles, 

Till  I  saw  a  splash  of  blood  on  a  stump, 

And  the  quail  lying  close  to  the  rotten  roots. 

I  reached  my  hand,  but  saw  no  brier, 

But  something  pricked  and  stung  and  numbed  it. 

And  then,  in  a  second,  I  spied  the  rattler  — 

The  shutters  wide  in  his  yellow  eyes, 

The  head  of  him  arched,  sunk  back  in  the  rings  of 

him, 

A  circle  of  filth,  the  color  of  ashes, 
Or  oak  leaves  bleached  under  layers  of  leaves. 
I  stood  like  a  stone  as  he  shrank  and  uncoiled 
And  started  to  crawl  beneath  the  stump, 
When  I  fell  limp  in  the  grass. 


148 


tlambert 

I  HAVE  two  monuments  besides  this  granite  obelisk : 

One,  the  house  I  built  on  the  hill, 

With  its  spires,  bay  windows,  and  roof  of  slate ; 

The  other,  the  lake-front  in  Chicago, 

Where  the  railroad  keeps  a  switching  yard, 

With  whistling  engines  and  crunching  wheels, 

And  smoke  and  soot  thrown  over  the  city, 

And  the  crash  of  cars  along  the  boulevard,  — 

A  blot  like  a  hog-pen  on  the  harbor 

Of  a  great  metropolis,  foul  as  a  sty. 

I  helped  to  give  this  heritage 

To  generations  yet  unborn,  with  my  vote 

In  the  House  of  Representatives, 

And  the  lure  of  the  thing  was  to  be  at  rest 

From  the  never-ending  fright  of  need, 

And  to  give  my  daughters  gentle  breeding, 

And  a  sense  of  security  in  life. 

But,  you  see,  though  I  had  the  mansion  house 

And  traveling  passes  and  local  distinction, 

I  could  hear  the  whispers,  whispers,  whispers, 

Wherever  I  went,  and  my  daughters  grew  up 

With  a  look  as  if  some  one  were  about  to  strike  them ; 

And  they  married  madly,  helter-skelter, 

Just  to  get  out  and  have  a  change. 

And  what  was  the  whole  of  the  business  worth  ? 

Why,  it  wasn't  worth  a  damn ! 

149 


ilillian  £>tetoart 

I  WAS  the  daughter  of  Lambert  Hutchins, 

Born  in  a  cottage  near  the  grist-mill, 

Reared  in  the  mansion  there  on  the  hill, 

With  its  spires,  bay-windows,  and  roof  of  slate. 

How  proud  my  mother  was  of  the  mansion  ! 

How  proud  of  father's  rise  in  the  world  ! 

And  how  my  father  loved  and  watched  us, 

And  guarded  our  happiness. 

But  I  believe  the  house  was  a  curse, 

For  father's  fortune  was  little  beside  it ; 

And  when  my  husband  found  he  had  married 

A  girl  who  was  really  poor, 

He  taunted  me  with  the  spires, 

And  called  the  house  a  fraud  on  the  world, 

A  treacherous  lure  to  young  men,  raising  hopes 

Of  a  dowry  not  to  be  had ; 

And  a  man  while  selling  his  vote 

Should  get  enough  from  the  people's  betrayal 

To  wall  the  whole  of  his  family  in. 

He  vexed  my  life  till  I  went  back  home 

And  lived  like  an  old  maid  till  I  died, 

Keeping  house  for  father. 

150 


Dortrnsf  Uobbinsr 

MY  name  used  to  be  in  the  papers  daily 

As  having  dined  somewhere, 

Or  traveled  somewhere, 

Or  rented  a  house  in  Paris, 

Where  I  entertained  the  nobility. 

I  was  forever  eating  or  traveling, 

Or  taking  the  cure  at  Baden-Baden. 

Now  I  am  here  to  do  honor 

To  Spoon  River,  here  beside  the  family  whence  I 

sprang. 

No  one  cares  now  where  I  dined, 
Or  lived,  or  whom  I  entertained, 
Or  how  often  I  took  the  cure  at  Baden-Baden ! 


Batterton 

DID  my  widow  flit  about 

From  Mackinac  to  Los  Angeles, 

Resting  and  bathing  and  sitting  an  hour 

Or  more  at  the  table  over  soup  and  meats 

And  delicate  sweets  and  coffee  ? 

I  was  cut  down  in  my  prime 

From  overwork  and  anxiety. 

But  I  thought  all  along,  whatever  happens 

I've  kept  my  insurance  up, 

And  there's  something  in  the  bank, 

And  a  section  of  land  in  Manitoba. 

But  just  as  I  slipped  I  had  a  vision 

In  a  last  delirium  : 

I  saw  myself  lying  nailed  in  a  box 

With  a  white  lawn  tie  and  a  boutonniere, 

And  my  wife  was  sitting  by  a  window 

Some  place  afar  overlooking  the  sea ; 

She  seemed  so  rested,  ruddy  and  fat, 

Although  her  hair  was  white. 

And  she  smiled  and  said  to  a  colored  waiter 

"Another  slice  of  roast  beef,  George. 

Here's  a  nickel  for  your  trouble." 


How  did  you  feel,  you  libertarians, 

Who  spent  your  talents  rallying  noble  reasons 

Around  the  saloon,  as  if  Liberty 

Was  not  to  be  found  anywhere  except  at  the  bar 

Or  at  a  table,  guzzling  ? 

How  did  you  feel,  Ben  Pantier,  and  the  rest  of  you, 

Who  almost  stoned  me  for  a  tyrant, 

Garbed  as  a  moralist, 

And  as  a  wry-faced  ascetic  frowning  upon  Yorkshire 

pudding, 

Roast  beef  and  ale  and  good  will  and  rosy  cheer  — 
Things  you  never  saw  in  a  grog-shop  in  your  life  ? 
How  did  you  feel  after  I  was  dead  and  gone, 
And  your  goddess,  Liberty,  unmasked  as  a  strumpet, 
Selling  out  the  streets  of  Spoon  River 
To  the  insolent  giants 
Who  manned  the  saloons  from  afar  ? 
Did  it  occur  to  you  that  personal  liberty 
Is  liberty  of  the  mind, 
Rather  than  of  the  belly  ? 


153 


Walter  g>immon0 

MY  parents  thought  that  I  would  be 

As  great  as  Edison  or  greater : 

For  as  a  boy  I  made  balloons 

And  wondrous  kites  and  toys  with  clocks 

And  little  engines  with  tracks  to  run  on 

And  telephones  of  cans  and  thread. 

I  played  the  cornet  and  painted  pictures, 

Modeled  in  clay  and  took  the  part 

Of  the  villain  in  the  "Octoroon." 

But  then  at  twenty-one  I  married 

And  had  to  live,  and  so,  to  live 

I  learned  the  trade  of  making  watches 

And  kept  the  jewelry  store  on  the  square, 

Thinking,  thinking,  thinking,  thinking,  — 

Not  of  business,  but  of  the  engine 

I  studied  the  calculus  to  build. 

And  all  Spoon  River  watched  and  waited 

To  see  it  work,  but  it  never  worked. 

And  a  few  kind  souls  believed  my  genius 

Was  somehow  hampered  by  the  store. 

It  wasn't  true.     The  truth  was  this  : 

I  didn't  have  the  brains. 

154 


HBeattp 

I  WAS  a.  lawyer  like  Harmon  Whitney 

Or  Kinsey  Keene  or  Garrison  Standard, 

For  I  tried  the  rights  of  property, 

Although  by  lamp-light,  for  thirty  years, 

In  that  poker  room  in  the  opera  house. 

And  I  say  to  you  that  Life's  a  gambler 

Head  and  shoulders  above  us  all. 

No  mayor  alive  can  close  the  house. 

And  if  you  lose,  you  can  squeal  as  you  will ; 

You'll  not  get  back  your  money. 

He  makes  the  percentage  hard  to  conquer; 

He  stacks  the  cards  to  catch  your  weakness 

And  not  to  meet  your  strength. 

And  he  gives  you  seventy  years  to  play : 

For  if  you  cannot  win  in  seventy 

You  cannot  win  at  all. 

So,  if  you  lose,  get  out  of  the  room  — 

Get  out  of  the  room  when  your  time  is  up. 

It's  mean  to  sit  and  fumble  the  cards, 

And  curse  your  losses,  leaden-eyed, 

Whining  to  try  and  try. 


Butler 

IF  the  learned  Supreme  Court  of  Illinois 

Got  at  the  secret  of  every  case 

As  well  as  it  does  a  case  of  rape 

It  would  be  the  greatest  court  in  the  world. 

A  jury,  of  neighbors  mostly,  with  "Butch"  Weldy 

As  foreman,  found  me  guilty  in  ten  minutes 

And  two  ballots  on  a  case  like  this : 

Richard  Bandle  and  I  had  trouble  over  a  fence, 

And  my  wife  and  Mrs.  Bandle  quarreled 

As  to  whether  Ipava  was  a  finer  town  than  Table 

Grove. 

I  awoke  one  morning  with  the  love  of  God 
Brimming  over  my  heart,  so  I  went  to  see  Richard 
To  settle  the  fence  in  the  spirit  of  Jesus  Christ. 
I  knocked  on  the  door,  and  his  wife  opened ; 
She  smiled  and  asked  me  in ;   I  entered  — 
She  slammed  the  door  and  began  to  scream, 
"Take  your  hands  off,  you  low  down  varlet!" 
Just  then  her  husband  entered. 
I  waved  my  hands,  choked  up  with  words. 
He  went  for  his  gun,  and  I  ran  out. 
But  neither  the  Supreme  Court  nor  my  wife 
Believed  a  word  she  said. 

156- 


jfoote 

I  WANTED  to  go  away  to  college 

But  rich  Aunt  Persis  wouldn't  help  me. 

So  I  made  gardens  and  raked  the  lawns 

And  bought  John  Alden's  books  with  my  earnings 

And  toiled  for  the  very  means  of  life. 

I  wanted  to  marry  Delia  Prickett, 

But  how  could  I  do  it  with  what  I  earned  ? 

And  there  was  Aunt  Persis  more  than  seventy, 

Who  sat  in  a  wheel-chair  half  alive. 

With  her  throat  so  paralyzed,  when  she  swallowed 

The  soup  ran  out  of  her  mouth  like  a  duck  — 

A  gourmand  yet,  investing  her  income 

In  mortgages,  fretting  all  the  time 

About  her  notes  and  rents  and  papers. 

That  day  I  was  sawing  wood  for  her, 

And  reading  Proudhon  in  between. 

I  went  in  the  house  for  a  drink  of  water, 

And  there  she  sat  asleep  in  her  chair, 

And  Proudhon  lying  on  the  table, 

And  a  bottle  of  chloroform  on  the  book, 

She  used  sometimes  for  an  aching  tooth ! 

I  poured  the  chloroform  on  a  handkerchief 

And  held  it  to  her  nose  till  she  died.  — 

157 


Oh  Delia,  Delia,  you  and  Proudhon 
Steadied  my  hand,  and  the  coroner 
Said  she  died  of  heart  failure. 
I  married  Delia  and  got  the  money  - 
A  joke  on  you,  Spoon  River  ? 


I58 


I  WOULD  I  had  thrust  my  hands  of  flesh 

Into  the  disk-flowers  bee-infested, 

Into  the  mirror-like  core  of  fire 

Of  the  light  of  life,  the  sun  of  delight. 

For  what  are  anthers  worth  or  petals 

Or  halo-rays  ?     Mockeries,  shadows 

Of  the  heart  of  the  flower,  the  central  flame ! 

All  is  yours,  young  passer-by; 

Enter  the  banquet  room  with  the  thought ; 

Don't  sidle  in  as  if  you  were  doubtful 

Whether  you're  welcome  —  the  feast  is  yours  ! 

Nor  take  but  a  little,  refusing  more 

With  a  bashful  "Thank  you,"  when  you're  hungry. 

Is  your  soul  alive  ?     Then  let  it  feed  ! 

Leave  no  balconies  where  you  can  climb ; 

Nor  milk-white  bosoms  where  you  can  rest; 

Nor  golden  heads  with  pillows  to  share; 

Nor  wine  cups  while  the  wine  is  sweet ; 

Nor  ecstasies  of  body  or  soul, 

You  will  die,  no  doubt,  but  die  while  living 

In  depths  of  azure,  rapt  and  mated, 

Kissing  the  queen-bee,  Life ! 

159 


(Thomas  (TrrUrlran 

READING  in  Ovid  the  sorrowful  story  of  Itys, 
Son  of  the  love  of  Tereus  and  Procne,  slain 
For  the  guilty  passion  of  Tereus  for  Philomela, 
The  flesh  of  him  served  to  Tereus  by  Procne, 
And  the  wrath  of  Tereus,  the  murderess  pursuing 
Till  the  gods  made  Philomela  a  nightingale, 
Lute  of  the  rising  moon,  and  Procne  a  swallow ! 
Oh  livers  and  artists  of  Hellas  centuries  gone, 
Sealing  in  little  thuribles  dreams  and  wisdom, 
Incense  beyond  all  price,  forever  fragrant, 
A  breath  whereof  makes  clear  the  eyes  of  the  soul ! 
How  I  inhaled  its  sweetness  here  in  Spoon  River ! 
The  thurible  opening  when  I  had  lived  and  learned 
How  all  of  us  kill  the  children  of  love,  and  all  of  us, 
Knowing  not  what  we  do,  devour  their  flesh ; 
And  all  of  us  change  to  singers,  although  it  be 
But    once    in    our    lives,    or    change  —  alas !  —  to 

swallows, 
To  twitter  amid  cold  winds  and  falling  leaves ! 


160 


J3rrctoal  elmrp 

OBSERVE  the  clasped  hands  ! 

Are  they  hands  of  farewell  or  greeting, 

Hands  that  I  helped  or  hands  that  helped  me  ? 

Would  it  not  be  well  to  carve  a  hand 

With  an  inverted  thumb,  like  Elagabalus  ? 

And  yonder  is  a  broken  chain, 

The  weakest-link  idea  perhaps  — 

But  what  was  it  ? 

And  lambs,  some  lying  down, 

Others  standing,  as  if  listening  to  the  shepherd  — 

Others  bearing  a  cross,  one  foot  lifted  up  — 

Why  not  chisel  a  few  shambles  ? 

And  fallen  columns !     Carve  the  pedestal,  please, 

Or   the  foundations;    let  us  see  the  cause  of  the 

fall. 

And  compasses  and  mathematical  instruments, 
In  irony  of  the  under  tenants'  ignorance 
Of  determinants  and  the  calculus  of  variations. 
And  anchors,  for  those  who  never  sailed. 
And  gates  ajar  —  yes,  so  they  were; 
161 


You  left  them  open  and  stray  goats  entered  your 

garden. 

And  an  eye  watching  like  one  of  the  Arimaspi  — 
So  did  you  —  with  one  eye. 

And  angels  blowing  trumpets  —  you  are  heralded  — 
It  is  your  horn  and  your  angel  and  your  family's 

estimate. 

It  is  all  very  well,  but  for  myself  I  know 
I  stirred  certain  vibrations  in  Spoon  River 
Which  are  my  true  epitaph,  more  lasting  than  stone. 


162 


pirant  scatrs' 

I  TRIED  to  win  the  nomination 
For  president  of  the  County-board 
And  I  made  speeches  all  over  the  County 
Denouncing  Solomon  Purple,  my  rival, 
As  an  enemy  of  the  people, 
In  league  with  the  master-foes  of  man. 
Young  idealists,  broken  warriors, 
Hobbling  on  one  crutch  of  hope, 
Souls  that  stake  their  all  on  the  truth, 
Losers  of  worlds  at  heaven's  bidding, 
Flocked  about  me  and  followed  my  voice 
As  the  savior  of  the  County. 
But  Solomon  won  the  nomination ; 
And  then  I  faced  about, 
And  rallied  my  followers  to  his  standard, 
And  made  him  victor,  made  him  King 
Of  the  Golden  Mountain  with  the  door 
Which  closed  on  my  heels  just  as  I  entered, 
Flattered  by  Solomon's  invitation, 
To  be  the  County-board's  secretary. 
163 


And  out  in  the  cold  stood  all  my  followers : 
Young  idealists,  broken  warriors 
Hobbling  on  one  crutch  of  hope  — 
Souls  that  staked  their  all  on  the  truth, 
Losers  of  worlds  at  heaven's  bidding, 
Watching  the  Devil  kick  the  Millennium 
Over  the  Golden  Mountain. 


164 


JjDoague 

HORSES  and  men  are  just  alike. 
There  was  my  stallion,  Billy  Lee, 
Black  as  a  cat  and  trim  as  a  deer, 
With  an  eye  of  fire,  keen  to  start, 
And  he  could  hit  the  fastest  speed 
Of  any  racer  around  Spoon  River. 
But  just  as  you'd  think  he  couldn't  lose, 
With  his  lead  of  fifty  yards  or  more, 
He'd  rear  himself  and  throw  the  rider, 
And  fall  back  over,  tangled  up, 
Completely  gone  to  pieces. 
You  see  he  was  a  perfect  fraud  : 
He  couldn't  win,  he  couldn't  work, 
He  was  too  light  to  haul  or  plow  with, 
And  no  one  wanted  colts  from  him. 
And  when  I  tried  to  drive  him  —  well, 
He  ran  away  and  killed  me. 


165 


3]ruutl)<m 

THERE  would  be  a  knock  at  the  door 

And  I  would  arise  at  midnight  and  go  to  the  shop, 

Where  belated  travelers  would  hear  me  hammering 

Sepulchral  boards  and  tacking  satin. 

And  often  I  wondered  who  would  go  with  me 

To  the  distant  land,  our  names  the  theme 

For  talk,  in  the  same  week,  for  I've  observed 

Two  always  go  together. 

Chase  Henry  was  paired  with  Edith  Conant; 

And  Jonathan  Somers  with  Willie  Metcalf ; 

And  Editor  Hamblin  with  Francis  Turner, 

When  he  prayed  to  live  longer  than  Editor  Whedon ; 

And  Thomas  Rhodes  with  widow  McFarlane; 

And  Emily  Sparks  with  Barry  Holden ; 

And  Oscar  Hummel  with  Davis  Matlock; 

And  Editor  Whedon  with  Fiddler  Jones; 

And  Faith  Matheny  with  Dorcas  Gustine. 

And  I,  the  solemnest  man  in  town, 

Stepped  off  with  Daisy  Fraser. 


166 


I  BOUGHT  every  kind  of  machine  that's  known 

Grinders,  shellers,  planters,  mowers, 

Mills  and  rakes  and  plows  and  threshers  — 

And  all  of  them  stood  in  the  rain  and  sun, 

Getting  rusted,  warped  and  battered, 

For  I  had  no  sheds  to  store  them  in, 

And  no  use  for  most  of  them. 

And  toward  the  last,  when  I  thought  it  over, 

There  by  my  window,  growing  clearer 

About  myself,  as  my  pulse  slowed  down, 

And  looked  at  one  of  the  mills  I  bought  — 

Which  I  didn't  have  the  slightest  need  of, 

As  things  turned  out,  and  I  never  ran  — 

A  fine  machine,  once  brightly  varnished, 

And  eager  to  do  its  work, 

Now  with  its  paint  washed  off  — 

I  saw  myself  as  a  good  machine 

That  Life  had  never  used. 


167 


MY  mother  was  for  woman's  rights 

And  my  father  was  the  rich  miller  at  London  Mills. 

I  dreamed  of  the  wrongs  of  the  world  and  wanted 

to  right  them. 
When  my  father  died,  I  set  out  to  see  peoples  and 

countries 

In  order  to  learn  how  to  reform  the  world. 
I  traveled  through  many  lands. 
I  saw  the  ruins  of  Rome, 
And  the  ruins  of  Athens, 
And  the  ruins  of  Thebes. 
And    I    sat   by  moonlight   amid   the  necropolis    of 

Memphis. 

There  I  was  caught  up  by  wings  of  flame, 
And  a  voice  from  heaven  said  to  me : 
"Injustice,  Untruth  destroyed  them.     Go  forth! 
Preach  Justice  !     Preach  Truth  !" 
And  I  hastened  back  to  Spoon  River 
To  say  farewell  to  my  mother  before  beginning  my 

work. 

168 


They  all  saw  a  strange  light  in  my  eye. 

And  by  and  by,  when  I  talked,  they  discovered 

What  had  come  in  my  mind. 

Then  Jonathan  Swift  Somers  challenged  me  to  de- 
bate 

The  subject,  (I  taking  the  negative)  : 

"Pontius  Pilate,  the  Greatest  Philosopher  of  the 
World." 

And  he  won  the  debate  by  saying  at  last, 

"  Before  you  reform  the  world,  Mr.  Tutt, 

Please  answer  the  question  of  Pontius  Pilate : 

'What  is  Truth?'" 


169 


(Elliott  Oatohinsi 

I  LOOKED  like  Abraham  Lincoln. 

I  was  one  of  you,  Spoon  River,  in  all  fellowship, 

But  standing  for  the  rights  of  property  and  for  order. 

A  regular  church  attendant, 

Sometimes  appearing  in  your  town  meetings  to  warn 

you 

Against  the  evils  of  discontent  and  envy, 
And  to  denounce  those  who  tried  to  destroy  the 

Union, 

And  to  point  to  the  peril  of  the  Knights  of  Labor. 
My  success  and  my  example  are  inevitable  influences 
In  your  young  men  and  in  generations  to  come, 
In  spite  of  attacks  of  newspapers  like  the  Clarion; 
A  regular  visitor  at  Springfield, 
When  the  Legislature  was  in  session, 
To  prevent  raids  upon  the  railroads, 
And  the  men  building  up  the  state. 
Trusted  by  them  and  by  you,  Spoon  River,  equally 
In  spite  of  the  whispers  that  I  was  a  lobbyist. 
Moving  quietly  through  the  world,  rich  and  courted. 

170 


Dying  at  last,  of  course,  but  lying  here 
Under  a  stone  with  an  open  book  carved  upon  it 
And  the  words  "Of  such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven" 
And  now,  you  world-savers,  who  reaped  nothing  in 

life 

And  in  death  have  neither  stones  nor  epitaphs, 
How  do  you  like  your  silence  from  mouths  stopped 
With  the  dust  of  my  triumphant  career  ? 


171 


©oltaire 

WHY  did  you  bruise  me  with  your  rough  places 

If  you  did  not  want  me  to  tell  you  about  them  ? 

And  stifle  me  with  your  stupidities, 

If  you  did  not  want  me  to  expose  them  ? 

And  nail  me  with  the  nails  of  cruelty, 

If  you  did  not  want  me  to  pluck  the  nails  forth 

And  fling  them'  in  your  faces  ? 

And  starve  me  because  I  refused  to  obey  you, 

If  you  did  not  want  me  to  undermine  your  tyranny  ? 

I  might  have  been  as  soul  serene 

As  William  Wordsworth  except  for  you  ! 

But  what  a  coward  you  are,  Spoon  River, 

When  you  drove  me  to  stand  in  a  magic  circle 

By  the  sword  of  Truth  described  ! 

And  then  to  whine  and  curse  your  burns, 

And  curse  my  power  who  stood  and  laughed 

Amid  ironical  lightning ! 


172 


(Eljonuon 

HERE  !     You  sons  of  the  men 

Who  fought  with  Washington  at  Valley  Forge, 

And  whipped  Black  Hawk  at  Starved  Rock, 

Arise  !     Do  battle  with  the  descendants  of  those 

Who  bought  land  in  the  loop  when  it  was  waste  sand, 

And  sold  blankets  and  guns  to  the  army  of  Grant, 

And  sat  in  legislatures  in  the  early  days, 

Taking  bribes  from  the  railroads ! 

Arise !     Do  battle  with  the  fops  and  bluffs, 

The  pretenders  and  figurantes  of  the  society  column 

And  the  yokel  souls  whose  daughters  marry  counts; 

And  the  parasites  on  great  ideas, 

And  the  noisy  riders  of  great  causes, 

And  the  heirs  of  ancient  thefts. 

Arise !     And  make  the  city  yours, 

And  the  State  yours  — 

You  who  are  sons  of  the  hardy  yeomanry  of  the 

forties ! 

By  God  !     If  you  do  not  destroy  these  vermin 
My  avenging  ghost  will  wipe  out 
Your  city  and  your  state. 


173 


cancel)  SDunlap 

How  many  times,  during  the  twenty  years 

I  was  your  leader,  friends  of  Spoon  River, 

Did  you  neglect  the  convention  and  caucus, 

And  leave  the  burden  on  my  hands 

Of  guarding  and  saving  the  people's  cause  ?  - 

Sometimes  because  you  were  ill ; 

Or  your  grandmother  was  ill ; 

Or  you  drank  too  much  and  fell  asleep ; 

Or  else  you  said  :  "He  is  our  leader, 

All  will  be  well ;  he  fights  for  us ; 

We  have  nothing  to  do  but  follow." 

But  oh,  how  you  cursed  me  when  I  fell, 

And  cursed  me,  saying  I  had  betrayed  you, 

In  leaving  the  caucus  room  for  a  moment, 

When  the  people's  enemies,  there  assembled, 

Waited  and  watched  for  a  chance  to  destroy 

The  Sacred  Rights  of  the  People. 

You  common  rabble !     I  left  the  caucus 

To  go  to  the  urinal ! 


174 


3f|tra 

NOTHING  in  life  is  alien  to  you : 

I  was  a  penniless  girl  from  Summum 

Who  stepped  from  the  morning  train  in  Spoon  River. 

All  the  houses  stood  before  me  with  closed  doors 

And  drawn  shades  —  I  was  barred  out; 

I  had  no  place  or  part  in  any  of  them. 

And  I  walked  past  the  old  McNeely  mansion, 

A  castle  of  stone  'mid  walks  and  gardens, 

With  workmen  about  the  place  on  guard, 

And  the  County  and  State  upholding  it 

For  its  lordly  owner,  full  of  pride. 

I  was  so  hungry  I  had  a  vision : 

I  saw  a  giant  pair  of  scissors 

Dip  from  the  sky,  like  the  beam  of  a  dredge, 

And  cut  the  house  in  two  like  a  curtain. 

But  at  the  "Commercial"  I  saw  a  man, 

Who  winked  at  me  as  I  asked  for  work  — 

It  was  Wash  McNeely's  son. 

He  proved  the  link  in  the  chain  of  title 

To  half  my  ownership  of  the  mansion, 

Through  a  breach  of  promise  suit  —  the  scissors. 

So,  you  see,  the  house,  from  the  day  I  was  born, 

Was  only  waiting  for  me. 

175 


»rtti  Compton 

WHEN  I  died,  the  circulating  library 

Which  I  built  up  for  Spoon  River, 

And  managed  for  the  good  of  inquiring  minds, 

Was  sold  at  auction  on  the  public  square, 

As  if  to  destroy  the  last  vestige 

Of  my  memory  and  influence. 

For  those  of  you  who  could  not  see  the  virtue 

Of  knowing  Volney's  "Ruins"  as  well  as   Butler's 

"Analogy" 

And  "Faust"  as  well  as  " Evangeline," 
Were  really  the  power  in  the  village, 
And  often  you  asked  me, 

"What  is  the  use  of  knowing  the  evil  in  the  world  ?" 
I  am  out  of  your  way  now,  Spoon  River, 
Choose  your  own  good  and  call  it  good. 
For  I  could  never  make  you  see 
That  no  one  knows  what  is  good 
Who  knows  not  what  is  evil ; 
And  no  one  knows  what  is  true 
Who  knows  not  what  is  false. 


176 


IT  was  only  a  little  house  of  two  rooms  — 
Almost  like  a  child's  play-house  — 
With  scarce  five  acres  of  ground  around  it; 
And  I  had  so  many  children  to  feed 
And  school  and  clothe,  and  a  wife  who  was  sick 
From  bearing  children. 
One  day  lawyer  Whitney  came  along 
And  proved  to  me  that  Christian  Dallman, 
Who  owned  three  thousand  acres  of  land, 
Had  bought  the  eighty  that  adjoined  me 
In  eighteen  hundred  and  seventy-one 
For  eleven  dollars,  at  a  sale  for  taxes, 
While  my  father  lay  in  his  mortal  illness. 
So  the  quarrel  arose  and  I  went  to  law. 
But  when  we  came  to  the  proof, 
A  survey  of  the  land  showed  clear  as  day 
That  Dallman's  tax  deed  covered  my  ground 
And  my  little  house  of  two  rooms. 
It  served  me  right  for  stirring  him  up. 
I  lost  my  case  and  lost  my  place. 
I  left  the  court  room  and  went  to  work 
As  Christian  Dallman's  tenant. 
177 


jfisfymnan 


I  SAT  on  the  bank  above  Bernadotte 

And  dropped  crumbs  in  the  water, 

Just  to  see  the  minnows  bump  each  other, 

Until  the  strongest  got  the  prize. 

Or  I  went  to  my  little  pasture, 

Where  the  peaceful  swine  were  asleep  in  the  wallow, 

Or  nosing  each  other  lovingly, 

And  emptied  a  basket  of  yellow  corn, 

And  watched  them  push  and  squeal  and  bite, 

And  trample  each  other  to  get  the  corn. 

And  I  saw  how  Christian  Dallman's  farm, 

Of  more  than  three  thousand  acres, 

Swallowed  the  patch  of  Felix  Schmidt, 

As  a  bass  will  swallow  a  minnow 

And  I  say  if  there's  anything  in  man  — 

Spirit,  or  conscience,  or  breath  of  God 

That  makes  him  different  from  fishes  or  hogs, 

I'd  like  to  see  it  work! 


178 


lvicl)ar&  I3onr 

WHEN  I  first  came  to  Spoon  River 

I  did  not  know  whether  what  they  told  me 

Was  true  or  false. 

They  would  bring  me  the  epitaph 

And  stand  around  the  shop  while  I  worked 

And  say  "He  was  so  kind,"  "He  was  wonderful," 

"  She  was  the  sweetest  woman,"  "  He  was  a  consistent 

Christian." 

And  I  chiseled  for  them  whatever  they  wished, 
All  in  ignorance  of  its  truth. 
But  later,  as  I  lived  among  the  people  here, 
I  knew  how  near  to  the  life 
Were  the  epitaphs  that  were  ordered  for  them  as 

they  died. 

But  still  I  chiseled  whatever  they  paid  me  to  chisel 
And  made  myself  party  to  the  false  chronicles 
Of  the  stones, 

Even  as  the  historian  does  who  writes 
Without  knowing  the  truth, 
Or  because  he  is  influenced  to  hide  it. 


179 


Dnnent 

IT  was  moon-light,  and  the  earth  sparkled 

With  new-fallen  frost. 

It  was  midnight  and  not  a  soul  was  abroad. 

Out  of  the  chimney  of  the  court-house 

A  grey-hound  of  smoke  leapt  and  chased 

The  northwest  wind. 

I  carried  a  ladder  to  the  landing  of  the  stairs 

And  leaned  it  against  the  frame  of  the  trap-door 

In  the  ceiling  of  the  portico, 

And  I  crawled  under  the  roof  and  amid  the  rafters 

And  flung  among  the  seasoned  timbers 

A  lighted  handful  of  oil-soaked  waste. 

Then  I  came  down  and  slunk  away. 

In  a  little  while  the  fire-bell  rang  — 

Clang !     Clang !     Clang  ! 

And  the  Spoon  River  ladder  company 

Came  with  a  dozen  buckets  and  began  to  pour  water 

On  the  glorious  bon-fire,  growing  hotter, 

Higher  and  brighter,  till  the  walls  fell  in, 

And  the  limestone  columns  where  Lincoln  stood 

Crashed  like  trees  when  the  woodman  fells  them  .  .  . 

When  I  came  back  from  Joliet 

There  was  a  new  court  house  with  a  dome. 

For  I  was  punished  like  all  who  destroy 

The  past  for  the  sake  of  the  future. 

180 


SDillaro  sussman 

THE  buzzards  wheel  slowly 

In  wide  circles,  in  a  sky 

Faintly  hazed  as  from  dust  from  the  road. 

And  a  wind  sweeps  through  the  pasture  where  I  lie 

Beating  the  grass  into  long  waves. 

My  kite  is  above  the  wind, 

Though  now  and  then  it  wobbles, 

Like  a  man  shaking  his  shoulders ; 

And  the  tail  streams  out  momentarily, 

Then  sinks  to  rest. 

And  the  buzzards  wheel  and  wheel, 

Sweeping  the  zenith  with  wide  circles 

Above  my  kite.     And  the  hills  sleep. 

And  a  farm  house,  white  as  snow, 

Peeps  from  green  trees  —  far  away. 

And  I  watch  my  kite, 

For  the  thin  moon  will  kindle  herself  ere  long, 

Then  she  will  swing  like  a  pendulum  dial 

To  the  tail  of  my  kite. 

A  spurt  of  flame  like  a  water-dragon 

Dazzles  my  eyes  — 

I  am  shaken  as  a  banner ! 


181 


3!onatljan  Uougljton 

THERE  is  the  caw  of  a  crow, 
And  the  hesitant  song  of  a  thrush. 
There  is  the  tinkle  of  a  cowbell  far  away, 
And  the  voice  of  a  plowman  on  Shipley's  hill. 
The  forest  beyond  the  orchard  is  still 
With  midsummer  stillness ; 
And  along  the  road  a  wagon  chuckles, 
Loaded  with  corn,  going  to  Atterbury. 
And  an  old  man  sits  under  a  tree  asleep, 
And  an  old  woman  crosses  the  road, 
Coming  from  the  orchard  with  a  bucket  of  black- 
berries. 

And  a  boy  lies  in  the  grass 
Near  the  feet  of  the  old  man, 
And  looks  up  at  the  sailing  clouds, 
And  longs,  and  longs,  and  longs 
For  what,  he  knows  not : 

For  manhood,  for  life,  for  the  unknown  world ! 
Then  thirty  years  passed, 
And  the  boy  returned  worn  out  by  life 
And  found  the  orchard  vanished, 
And  the  forest  gone, 
And  the  house  made  over, 

And  the  roadway  filled  with  dust  from  automobiles  — 
And  himself  desiring  The  Hill ! 

182 


(E.  C»  Culbertsfon 

Is  it  true,  Spoon  River, 

That  in  the  hall-way  of  the  New  Court  House 

There  is  a  tablet  of  bronze 

Containing  the  embossed  faces 

Of  Editor  Whedon  and  Thomas  Rhodes  ? 

And  is  it  true  that  my  successful  labors 

In  the  County  Board,  without  which 

Not  one  stone  would  have  been  placed  on  another, 

And  the  contributions  out  of  my  own  pocket 

To  build  the  temple,  are  but  memories  among  the 

people, 

Gradually  fading  away,  and  soon  to  descend 
With  them  to  this  oblivion  where  I  lie  ? 
In  truth,  I  can  so  believe. 
For  it  is  a  law  of  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven 
That  whoso  enters  the  vineyard  at  the  eleventh  hour 
Shall  receive  a  full  day's  pay. 
And  it  is  a  law  of  the  Kingdom  of  this  World 
That  those  who  first  oppose  a  good  work 
Seize  it  and  make  it  their  own, 
When  the  corner-stone  is  laid, 
And  memorial  tablets  are  erected. 


183 


THE  white  men  played  all  sorts  of  jokes  on  me. 

They  took  big  fish  off  my  hook 

And  put  little  ones  on,  while  I  was  away 

Getting  a  stringer,  and  made  me  believe 

I  hadn't  seen  aright  the  fish  I  had  caught. 

When  Burr  Robbins  circus  came  to  town 

They  got  the  ring  master  to  let  a  tame  leopard 

Into  the  ring,  and  made  me  believe 

I  was  whipping  a  wild  beast  like  Samson 

When  I,  for  an  offer  of  fifty  dollars, 

Dragged  him  out  to  his  cage. 

One  time  I  entered  my  blacksmith  shop 

And  shook  as  I  saw  some  horse-shoes  crawling 

Across  the  floor,  as  if  alive  — 

Walter  Simmons  had  put  a  magnet 

Under  the  barrel  of  water. 

Yet  everyone  of  you,  you  white  men, 

Was  fooled  about  fish  and  about  leopards  too, 

And  you  didn't  know  any  more  than  the  horse-shoes 

did 
What  moved  you  about  Spoon  River. 


184 


l;tlDrup 

I  MADE  two  fights  for  the  people. 

First  I  left  my  party,  bearing  the  gonfalon 

Of  independence,  for  reform,  and  was  defeated. 

Next  I  used  my  rebel  strength 

To  capture  the  standard  of  my  old  party  — 

And  I  captured  it,  but  I  was  defeated. 

Discredited  and  discarded,  misanthropical, 

I  turned  to  the  solace  of  gold 

And  I  used  my  remnant  of  power 

To  fasten  myself  like  a  saprophyte 

Upon  the  putrescent  carcass 

Of  Thomas  Rhodes'  bankrupt  bank, 

As  assignee  of  the  fund. 

Everyone  now  turned  from  me. 

My  hair  grew  white, 

My  purple  lusts  grew  gray, 

Tobacco  and  whisky  lost  their  savor 

And  for  years  Death  ignored  me 

As  he  does  a  hog. 


185 


THE  bank  broke  and  I  lost  my  savings. 

I  was  sick  of  the  tiresome  game  in  Spoon  River 

And  I  made  up  my  mind  to  run  away 

And  leave  my  place  in  life  and  my  family ; 

But  just  as  the  midnight  train  pulled  in, 

Quick  off  the  steps  jumped  Cully  Green 

And  Martin  Vise,  and  began  to  fight 

To  settle  their  ancient  rivalry, 

Striking  each  other  with  fists  that  sounded 

Like  the  blows  of  knotted  clubs. 

Now  it  seemed  to  me  that  Cully  was  winning, 

When  his  bloody  face  broke  into  a  grin 

Of  sickly  cowardice,  leaning  on  Martin 

And  whining  out  "We're  good  friends,  Mart, 

You  know  that  I'm  your  friend." 

But  a  terrible  punch  from  Martin  knocked  him 

Around  and  around  and  into  a  heap. 

And  then  they  arrested  me  as  a  witness, 

And  I  lost  my  train  and  staid  in  Spoon  River 

To  wage  my  battle  of  life  to  the  end. 

Oh,  Cully  Green,  you  were  my  savior  — 

You,  so  ashamed  and  drooped  for  years, 

Loitering  listless  about  the  streets, 

And  tying  rags  'round  your  festering  soul, 

Who  failed  to  fight  it  out. 

186 


Caltjoun 

I  WANTED  to  be  County  Judge 

One  more  term,  so  as  to  round  out  a  service 

Of  thirty  years. 

But  my  friends  left  me  and  joined  my  enemies, 

And  they  elected  a  new  man. 

Then  a  spirit  of  revenge  seized  me, 

And  I  infected  my  four  sons  with  it, 

And  I  brooded  upon  retaliation, 

Until  the  great  physician,  Nature, 

Smote  me  through  with  paralysis 

To  give  my  soul  and  body  a  rest. 

Did  my  sons  get  power  and  money  ? 

Did  they  serve  the  people  or  yoke  them, 

To  till  and  harvest  fields  of  self  ? 

For  how  could  they  ever  forget 

My  face  at  my  bed-room  window, 

Sitting  helpless  amid  my  golden  cages 

Of  singing  canaries, 

Looking  at  the  old  court-house  ? 


187 


C.  Catyoun 

I  REACHED  the  highest  place  in  Spoon  River, 

But  through  what  bitterness  of  spirit ! 

The  face  of  my  father,  sitting  speechless, 

Child-like,  watching  his  canaries, 

And  looking  at  the  court-house  window 

Of  the  county  judge's  room, 

And  his  admonitions  to  me  to  seek 

My  own  in  life,  and  punish  Spoon  River 

To  avenge  the  wrong  the  people  did  him, 

Filled  me  with  furious  energy 

To  seek  for  wealth  and  seek  for  power. 

But  what  did  he  do  but  send  me  along 

The  path  that  leads  to  the  grove  of  the  Furies  ? 

I  followed  the  path  and  I  tell  you  this : 

On  the  way  to  the  grove  you'll  pass  the  Fates, 

Shadow-eyed,  bent  over  their  weaving. 

Stop  for  a  moment,  and  if  you  see 

The  thread  of  revenge  leap  out  of  the  shuttle, 

Then  quickly  snatch  from  Atropos 

The  shears  and  cut  it,  lest  your  sons, 

And  the  children  of  them  and  their  children 

Wear  the  envenomed  robe. 

1 88 


tBotr 


WHY  was  I  not  devoured  by  self-contempt, 

And  rotted  down  by  indifference 

And  impotent  revolt  like  Indignation  Jones  ? 

Why,  with  all  of  my  errant  steps, 

Did  I  miss  the  fate  of  Willard  Fluke  ? 

And  why,  though  I  stood  at  Burchard's  bar, 

As  a  sort  of  decoy  for  the  house  to  the  boys 

To  buy  the  drinks,  did  the  curse  of  drink 

Fall  on  me  like  rain  that  runs  off, 

Leaving  the  soul  of  me  dry  and  clean  ? 

And  why  did  I  never  kill  a  man 

Like  Jack  McGuire  ? 

But  instead  I  mounted  a  little  in  life, 

And  I  owe  it  all  to  a  book  I  read. 

But  why  did  I  go  to  Mason  City, 

Where  I  chanced  to  see  the  book  in  a  window, 

With  its  garish  cover  luring  my  eye  ? 

And  why  did  my  soul  respond  to  the  book, 

As  I  read  it  over  and  over  ? 


189 


MY  thanks,  friends  of  the  County  Scientific  Asso- 
ciation, 

For  this  modest  boulder, 
And  its  little  tablet  of  bronze. 
Twice  I  tried  to  join  your  honored  body, 
And  was  rejected, 
And  when  my  little  brochure 
On  the  intelligence  of  plants 
Began  to  attract  attention 
You  almost  voted  me  in. 
After  that  I  grew  beyond  the  need  of  you 
And  your  recognition. 
Yet  I  do  not  reject  your  memorial  stone, 
Seeing  that  I  should,  in  so  doing, 
Deprive  you  of  honor  to  yourselves. 


190 


DippolQ  tl)r  Optician 

WHAT  do  you  see  now  ? 

Globes  of  red,  yellow,  purple. 

Just  a  moment !     And  now  ? 

My  father  and  mother  and  sisters. 

Yes  !    And  now  ? 

Knights  at  arms,  beautiful  women,  kind  faces. 

Try  this. 

A  field  of  grain  —  a  city. 

Very  good  !    And  now  ? 

A  young  woman  with  angels  bending  over  her. 

A  heavier  lens  !     And  now  ? 

Many  women  with  bright  eyes  and  open  lips. 

Try  this. 

Just  a  goblet  on  a  table. 

Oh  I  see !    Try  this  lens  ! 

Just  an  open  space  —  I  see  nothing  in  particular. 

Well,  now ! 

Pine  trees,  a  lake,  a  summer  sky. 

That's  better.     And  now  ? 

A  book. 

Read  a  page  for  me. 

I  can't.     My  eyes  are  carried  beyond  the  page. 

191 


Try  this  lens. 

Depths  of  air. 

Excellent !     And  now ! 

Light,  just  light  making  everything  below  it  a  toy 

world. 
Very  well,  we'll  make  the  glasses  accordingly. 


192 


TELL  me,  was  Altgeld  elected  Governor  ? 

For  when  the  returns  began  to  come  in 

And  Cleveland  was  sweeping  the  East, 

It  was  too  much  for  you,  poor  old  heart, 

Who  had  striven  for  democracy 

In  the  long,  long  years  of  defeat. 

And  like  a  watch  that  is  worn 

I  felt 'you  growing  slower  until  you  stopped. 

Tell  me,  was  Altgeld  elected, 

And  what  did  he  do  ? 

Did  they  bring  his  head  on  a  platter  to  a  dancer, 

Or  did  he  triumph  for  the  people  ? 

For  when  I  saw  him 

And  took  his  hand, 

The  child-like  blueness  of  his  eyes 

Moved  me  to  tears, 

And  there  was  an  air  of  eternity  about  him, 

Like  the  cold,  clear  light  that  rests  at  dawn 

On  the  hills ! 


193 


I  LOATHED  you,  Spoon  River.     I  tried  to  rise  above 

you, 

I  was  ashamed  of  you.     I  despised  you 
As  the  place  of  my  nativity. 
And  there  in  Rome,  among  the  artists, 
Speaking  Italian,  speaking  French, 
I  seemed  to  myself  at  times  to  be  free 
Of  every  trace  of  my  origin. 
I  seemed  to  be  reaching  the  heights  of  art 
And  to  breathe  the  air  that  the  masters  breathed, 
And  to  see  the  world  with  their  eyes. 
But  still  they'd  pass  my  work  and  say : 
"What  are  you  driving  at,  my  friend  ? 
Sometimes  the  face  looks  like  Apollo's, 
At  others  it  has  a  trace  of  Lincoln's." 
There  was  no  culture,  you  know,  in  Spoon  River, 
And  I  burned  with  shame  and  held  my  peace. 
And  what  could  I  do,  all  covered  over 
And  weighted  down  with  western  soil, 
Except  aspire,  and  pray  for  another 
Birth  in  the  world,  with  all  of  Spoon  River 
Rooted  out  of  my  soul  ? 

194 


sperritc 

AT  first  I  suspected  something  — 

She  acted  so  calm  and  absent-minded. 

And  one  day  I  heard  the  back  door  shut, 

As  I  entered  the  front,  and  I  saw  him  slink 

Back  of  the  smokehouse  into  the  lot, 

And  run  across  the  field. 

And  I  meant  to  kill  him  on  sight. 

But  that  day,  walking  near  Fourth  Bridge, 

Without  a  stick  or  a  stone  at  hand, 

All  of  a  sudden  I  saw  him  standing, 

Scared  to  death,  holding  his  rabbits, 

And  all  I  could  say  was,  "  Don't,  Don't,  Don't," 

As  he  aimed  and  fired  at  my  heart. 


195 


,  tytttitt 

SILENT  before  the  jury, 

Returning  no  word  to  the  judge  when  he  asked  me 

If  I  had  aught  to  say  against  the  sentence, 

Only  shaking  my  head. 

What  could  I  say  to  people  who  thought 

That  a  woman  of  thirty-five  was  at  fault 

When  her  lover  of  nineteen  killed  her  husband  ? 

Even  though  she  had  said  to  him  over  and  over, 

"Go  away,  Elmer,  go  far  away, 

I  have  maddened  your  brain  with  the  gift  of  my 

body : 

You  will  do  some  terrible  thing." 
And  just  as  I  feared,  he  killed  my  husband; 
With  which  I  had  nothing  to  do,  before  God ! 
Silent  for  thirty  years  in  prison  ! 
And  the  iron  gates  of  Joliet 
Swung  as  the  gray  and  silent  trusties 
Carried  me  out  in  a  coffin. 


196 


elmcr 


WHAT  but  the  love  of  God  could  have  softened 

And  made  forgiving  the  people  of  Spoon  River 

Toward  me  who  wronged  the  bed  of  Thomas  Merritt 

And  murdered  him  beside  ? 

Oh,  loving  hearts  that  took  me  in  again 

When  I  returned  from  fourteen  years  in  prison  ! 

Oh,  helping  hands  that  in  the  church  received  me, 

And  heard  with  tears  my  penitent  confession, 

Who  took  the  sacrament  of  bread  and  wine  ! 

Repent,  ye  living  ones,  and  rest  with  Jesus. 


197 


eii?abctt) 


DUST  of  my  dust, 

And  dust  with  my  dust, 

O,  child  who  died  as  you  entered  the  world, 

Dead  with  my  death  ! 

Not  knowing  Breath,  though  you  tried  so  hard, 

With  a  heart  that  beat  when  you  lived  with  me, 

And  stopped  when  you  left  me  for  Life. 

It  is  well,  my  child.     For  you  never  traveled 

The  long,  long  way  that  begins  with  school  days, 

When  little  fingers  blur  under  the  tears 

That  fall  on  the  crooked  letters. 

And  the  earliest  wound,  when  a  little  mate 

Leaves  you  alone  for  another; 

And  sickness,  and  the  face  of  Fear  by  the  bed  ; 

The  death  of  a  father  or  mother  ; 

Or  shame  for  them,  or  poverty; 

The  maiden  sorrow  of  school  days  ended  ; 

And  eyeless  Nature  that  makes  you  drink 

From    the    cup    of   Love,    though    you    know    it's 

poisoned  ; 

To  whom  would  your  flower-face  have  been  lifted  ? 
Botanist,  weakling  ?     Cry  of  what  blood  to  yours  ?  — 

198 


Pure  or  foul,  for  it  make  no  matter, 

It's  blood  that  calls  to  our  blood. 

And  then  your  children  —  oh,  what  might  they  be  ? 

And  what  your  sorrow  ?     Child  !     Child  ! 

Death  is  better  than  Life ! 


199 


Conanc 

WE  stand  about  this  place  —  we,  the  memories; 
And  shade  our  eyes  because  we  dread  to  read : 
"June  lyth,  1884,  aged  21  years  and  3  days." 
And  all  things  are  changed. 
And  we  —  we,  the  memories,  stand  here  for  ourselves 

alone, 
For  no  eye  marks  us,  or  would  know  why  we  are 

here. 

Your  husband  is  dead,  your  sister  lives  far  away, 
Your  father  is  bent  with  age ; 

He  has  forgotten  you,  he  scarcely  leaves  the  house 
Any  more. 

No  one  remembers  your  exquisite  face, 
Your  lyric  voice ! 
How   you   sang,   even   on   the   morning  you   were 

stricken, 

With  piercing  sweetness,  with  thrilling  sorrow, 
Before  the  advent  of  the  child  which  died  with  you. 
It  is  all  forgotten,  save  by  us,  the  memories, 
Who  are  forgotten  by  the  world. 

200 


All  is  changed,  save  the  river  and  the  hill  — - 

Even  they  are  changed. 

Only  the  burning  sun  and  the  quiet  stars  are  the 

same. 

And  we  —  we,  the  memories,  stand  here  in  awe, 
Our  eyes  closed  with  the  weariness  of  tears  — 
In  immeasurable  weariness ! 


201 


Claries 

THE  pine  woods  on  the  hill, 
And  the  farmhouse  miles  away, 
Showed  clear  as  though  behind  a  lens 
Under  a  sky  of  peacock  blue ! 
But  a  blanket  of  cloud  by  afternoon 
Muffled  the  earth.     And  you  walked  the  road 
And  the  clover  field,  where  the  only  sound 
Was  the  cricket's  liquid  tremolo. 
Then  the  sun  went  down  between  great  drifts 
Of  distant  storms.     For  a  rising  wind 
Swept  clean  the  sky  and  blew  the  flames 
Of  the  unprotected  stars ; 
And  swayed  the  russet  moon, 
Hanging  between  the  rim  of  the  hill 
And  the  twinkling  boughs  of  the  apple  orchard. 
You  walked  the  shore  in  thought 
Where  the  throats  of  the  waves  were  like  whip-poor- 
wills 

Singing  beneath  the  water  and  crying 
To  the  wash  of  the  wind  in  the  cedar  trees, 
Till  you  stood,  too  full  for  tears,  by  the  cot, 
And  looking  up  saw  Jupiter, 
Tipping  the  spire  of  the  giant  pine, 
And  looking  down  saw  my  vacant  chair, 
Rocked  by  the  wind  on  the  lonely  porch  — 
Be  brave,  Beloved ! 

202 


You  are  over  there,  Father  Malloy, 

Where  holy  ground  is,  and  the  cross  marks  every 

grave, 

Not  here  with  us  on  the  hill  — 
Us  of  wavering  faith,  and  clouded  vision 
And  drifting  hope,  and  unforgiven  sins. 
You  were  so  human,  Father  Malloy, 
Taking  a  friendly  glass  sometimes  with  us, 
Siding  with  us  who  would  rescue  Spoon  River 
From   the   coldness   and   the   dreariness  of  village 

morality. 
You  were  like  a  traveler  who  brings  a  little  box  of 

sand 

From  the  wastes  about  the  pyramids 
And  makes  them  real  and  Egypt  real. 
You  were  a  part  of  and  related  to  a  great  past, 
And  yet  you  were  so  close  to  many  of  us. 
You  believed  in  the  joy  of  life. 
You  did  not  seem  to  be  ashamed  of  the  flesh. 
You  faced  life  as  it  is, 
And  as  it  changes. 

Some  of  us  almost  came  to  you,  Father  Malloy, 
Seeing  how  your  church  had  divined  the  heart, 
And  provided  for  it, 
Through  Peter  the  Flame, 
Peter  the  Rock. 
203 


NOT  "a  youth  with  hoary  head  and  haggard  eye," 

But  an  old  man  with  a  smooth  skin 

And  black  hair ! 

I  had  the  face  of  a  boy  as  long  as  I  lived, 

And  for  years  a  soul  that  was  stiff  and  bent, 

In  a  world  which  saw  me  just  as  a  jest, 

To  be  hailed  familiarly  when  it  chose, 

And  loaded  up  as  a  man  when  it  chose, 

Being  neither  man  nor  boy. 

In  truth  it  was  soul  as  well  as  body 

Which  never  matured,  and  I  say  to  you 

That  the  much-sought  prize  of  eternal  youth 

Is  just  arrested  growth. 


204 


Caltim  Campbell 

YE  who  are  kicking  against  Fate, 

Tell  me  how  it  is  that  on  this  hill-side, 

Running  down  to  the  river, 

Which  fronts  the  sun  and  the  south-wind, 

This  plant  draws  from  the  air  and  soil 

Poison  and  becomes  poison  ivy  ? 

And  this  plant  draws  from  the  same  air  and  soil 

Sweet  elixirs  and  colors  and  becomes  arbutus  ? 

And  both  flourish  ? 

You  may  blame  Spoon  River  for  what  it  is, 

But  whom  do  you  blame  for  the  will  in  you 

That  feeds  itself  and  makes  you  dock-weed, 

Jimpson,  dandelion  or  mullen 

And  which  can  never  use  any  soil  or  air 

So  as  to  make  you  jessamine  or  wistaria  ? 


205 


WHOEVER  thou  art  who  passest  by 

Know  that  my  father  was  gentle, 

And  my  mother  was  violent, 

While  I  was  born  the  whole  of  such  hostile  halves, 

Not  intermixed  and  fused, 

But  each  distinct,  feebly  soldered  together. 

Some  of  you  saw  me  as  gentle, 

Some  as  violent, 

Some  as  both. 

But  neither  half  of  me  wrought  my  ruin. 

It  was  the  falling  asunder  of  halves, 

Never  a  part  of  each  other, 

That  left  me  a  lifeless  soul. 


206 


fcarlau  srtoall 

You  never  understood,  O  unknown  one, 

Why  it  was  I  repaid 

Your  devoted  friendship  and  delicate  ministrations 

First  with  diminished  thanks, 

Afterward  by  gradually  withdrawing  my  presence 

from  you, 

So  that  I  might  not  be  compelled  to  thank  you, 
And  then  with  silence  which  followed  upon 
Our  final  Separation. 

You  had  cured  my  diseased  soul.     But  to  cure  it 
You  saw  my  disease,  you  knew  my  secret, 
And  that  is  why  I  fled  from  you. 
For  though  when  our  bodies  rise  from  pain 
We  kiss  forever  the  watchful  hands 
That  gave  us  wormwood,  while  we  shudder 
For  thinking  of  the  wormwood, 
A  soul  that's  cured  is  a  different  matter, 
For  there  we'd  blot  from  memory 
The  soft-toned  words,  the  searching  eyes, 
And  stand  forever  oblivious, 
Not  so  much  of  the  sorrow  itself 
As  of  the  hand  that  healed  it. 
207 


2f|ppolit 

I  WAS  a  gun-smith  in  Odessa. 

One  night  the  police  broke  in  the  room 

Where  a  group  of  us  were  reading  Spencer, 

And  seized  our  books  and  arrested  us. 

But  I  escaped  and  came  to  New  York 

And  thence  to  Chicago,  and  then  to  Spoon  River, 

Where  I  could  study  my  Kant  in  peace 

And  eke  out  a  living  repairing  guns  ! 

Look  at  my  moulds  !     My  architectonics  ! 

One  for  a  barrel,  one  for  a  hammer, 

And  others  for  other  parts  of  a  gun  ! 

Well,  now  suppose  no  gun-smith  living 

Had  anything  else  but  duplicate  moulds 

Of  these  I  show  you  —  well,  all  guns 

Would  be  just  alike,  with  a  hammer  to  hit 

The  cap  and  a  barrel  to  carry  the  shot, 

All  acting  alike  for  themselves,  and  all 

Acting  against  each  other  alike. 

And  there  would  be  your  world  of  guns  ! 

Which  nothing  could  ever  free  from  itself 

Except  a  Moulder  with  different  moulds 

To  mould  the  metal  over. 

208 


I  WAS  the  Sunday  school  superintendent, 

The  dummy  president  of  the  wagon  works 

And  the  canning  factory, 

Acting  for  Thomas  Rhodes  and  the  banking  clique ; 

My  son  the  cashier  of  the  bank, 

Wedded  to  Rhodes'  daughter, 

My  week  days  spent  in  making  money, 

My  Sundays  at  church  and  in  prayer. 

In  everything  a  cog  in  the  wheel  of  things-as-they- 

ar.e: 

Of  money,  master  and  man,  made  white 
With  the  paint  of  the  Christian  creed. 
And  then : 
The  bank  collapsed.     I   stood   and  looked   at  the 

wrecked  machine  — 
The  wheels  with  blow-holes  stopped  with  putty  and 

painted ; 

The  rotten  bolts,  the  broken  rods; 
And  only  the  hopper  for  souls  fit  to  be  used  again 
In  a  new  devourer  of  life,  when  newspapers,  judges 

and  money-magicians 
Build  over  again. 
209 


I  was  stripped  to  the  bone,  but  I  lay  in  the  Rock  of 

Ages, 

Seeing  now  through  the  game,  no  longer  a  dupe, 
And  knowing  "the  upright  shall  dwell  in  the  land 
But  the  years  of  the  wicked  shall  be  shortened." 
Then  suddenly,  Dr.  Meyers  discovered 
A  cancer  in  my  liver. 

I  was  not,  after  all,  the  particular  care  of  God  ! 
Why,  even  thus  standing  on  a  peak 
Above  the  mists  through  which  I  had  climbed, 
And  ready  for  larger  life  in  the  world, 
Eternal  forces 
Moved  me  on  with  a  push. 


210 


£?arrv 

I  WAS  just  turned  twenty-one, 

And  Henry  Phipps,  the  Sunday-school  superintend- 
ent, 

Made  a  speech  in  Bindle's  Opera  House. 

"The  honor  of  the  flag  must  be  upheld,"  he  said, 

"Whether  it  be  assailed  by  a  barbarous  tribe  of 
Tagalogs 

Or  the  greatest  power  in  Europe." 

And  we  cheered  and  cheered  the  speech  and  the  flag 
he  waved 

As  he  spoke. 

And  I  went  to  the  war  in  spite  of  my  father, 

And  followed  the  flag  till  I  saw  it  raised 

By  our  camp  in  a  rice  field  near  Manila, 

And  all  of  us  cheered  and  cheered  it. 

But  there  were  flies  and  poisonous  things; 

And  there  was  the  deadly  water, 

And  the  cruel  heat, 

And  the  sickening,  putrid  food ; 

And  the  smell  of  the  trench  just  back  of  the 
tents 

Where  the  soldiers  went  to  empty  themselves ; 

211 


And  there  were  the  whores  who  followed  us,  full  of 

syphilis ; 

And  beastly  acts  between  ourselves  or  alone, 
With  bullying,  hatred,  degradation  among  us,. 
And  days  of  loathing  and  nights  of  fear 
To  the  hour  of  the  charge  through  the  steaming 

swamp, 

Following  the  flag, 

Till  I  fell  with  a  scream,  shot  through  the  guts. 
Now  there's  a  flag  over  me  in  Spoon  River  1 
A  flag!    A  flag! 


212 


OH  !    the  dew-wet  grass  of  the  meadow  in  North 

Carolina 

Through  which  Rebecca  followed  me  wailing,  wailing, 
One  child  in  her  arms,  and  three  that  ran   along 

wailing, 
Lengthening  out  the  farewell  to  me  off  to  the  war 

with  the  British, 
And  then  the  long,  hard  years  down  to  the  day  of 

Yorktown. 

And  then  my  search  for  Rebecca, 
Finding  her  at  last  in  Virginia, 
Two  children  dead  in  the  meanwhile. 
We  went  by  oxen  to  Tennessee, 
Thence  after  years  to  Illinois, 
At  last  to  Spoon  River. 
We  cut  the  buffalo  grass, 
We  felled  the  forests, 

We  built  the  school  houses,  built  the  bridges, 
Leveled  the  roads  and  tilled  the  fields 
Alone  with  poverty,  scourges,  death  — 
If  Harry  Wilmans  who  fought  the  Filipinos 
Is  to  have  a  flag  on  his  grave 
Take  it  from  mine ! 
213 


THE  idea  danced  before  us  as  a  flag; 

The  sound  of  martial  music; 

The  thrill  of  carrying  a  gun ; 

Advancement  in  the  world  on  coming  home ; 

A  glint  of  glory,  wrath  for  foes ; 

A  dream  of  duty  to  country  or  to  God. 

But  these  were  things  in  ourselves,  shining  before  us, 

They  were  not  the  power  behind  us, 

Which  was  the  Almighty  hand  of  Life, 

Like  fire  at  earth's  center  making  mountains, 

Or  pent  up  waters  that  cut  them  through. 

Do  you  remember  the  iron  band 

The  blacksmith,  Shack  Dye,  welded 

Around  the  oak  on  Rennet's  lawn, 

From  which  to  swing  a  hammock, 

That  daughter  Janet  might  repose  in,  reading 

On  summer  afternoons  ? 

And  that  the  growing  tree  at  last 

Sundered  the  iron  band  ? 

But  not  a  cell  in  all  the  tree 

Knew  aught  save  that  it  thrilled  with  life, 

Nor  cared  because  the  hammock  fell 

In  the  dust  with  Milton's  Poems. 

214 


n  Jamrs 

HARRY  WILMANS  !    You  who  fell  in  a  swamp 

Near  Manila,  following  the  flag, 

You  were  not  wounded  by  the  greatness  of  a  dream, 

Or  destroyed  by  ineffectual  work, 

Or  driven  to  madness  by  Satanic  snags; 

You  were  not  torn  by  aching  nerves, 

Nor  did  you  carry  great  wounds  to  your  old  age. 

You  did  not  starve,  for  the  government  fed  you. 

You  did  not  suffer  yet  cry  "forward" 

To  an  army  which  you  led 

Against  a  foe  with  mocking  smiles, 

Sharper    than    bayonets.     You    were    not    smitten 

down 

By  invisible  bombs.     You  were  not  rejected 
By  those  for  whom  you  were  defeated. 
You  did  not  eat  the  savorless  bread 
Which  a  poor  alchemy  had  made  from  ideals. 
You  went  to  Manila,  Harry  Wilmans, 
While  I  enlisted  in  the  bedraggled  army 
Of  bright-eyed,  divine  youths, 

Who  surged  forward,  who  were  driven  back  and  fell, 
Sick,  broken,  crying,  shorn  of  faith, 
Following  the  flag  of  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven. 
215 


You  and  I,  Harry  Wilmans,  have  fallen 
In  our  several  ways,  not  knowing 
Good  from  bad,  defeat  from  victory, 
Nor  what  face  it  is  that  smiles 
Behind  the  demoniac  mask. 


216 


JLptnan  fcing 

You  may  think,  passer-by,  that  Fate 

Is  a  pit-fall  outside  of  yourself, 

Around  which  you  may  walk  by  the  use  of  foresight 

And  wisdom. 

Thus  you  believe,  viewing  the  lives  of  other  men, 

As  one  who  in  God-like  fashion  bends  over  an  anthill, 

Seeing  how  their  difficulties  could  be  avoided. 

But  pass  on  into  life : 

In  time  you  shall  see  Fate  approach  you 

In  the  shape  of  your  own  image  in  the  mirror; 

Or  you  shall  sit  alone  by  your  own  hearth, 

And  suddenly  the  chair  by  you  shall  hold  a  guest, 

And  you  shall  know  that  guest, 

And  read  the  authentic  message  of  his  eyes. 


217 


Caroline 

WITH  our  hearts  like  drifting  suns,   had  we  but 

walked, 

As  often  before,  the  April  fields  till  star-light 
Silkened  over  with  viewless  gauze  the  darkness 
Under  the  cliff,  our  trysting  place  in  the  wood, 
Where  the  brook  turns !     Had  we  but  passed  from 

wooing 

Like  notes  of  music  that  run  together,  into  winning, 
In  the  inspired  improvisation  of  love  ! 
But  to  put  back  of  us  as  a  canticle  ended 
The  rapt  enchantment  of  the  flesh, 
In  which  our  souls  swooned,  down,  down, 
Where  time  was  not,  nor  space,  nor  ourselves  — 
Annihilated  in  love ! 

To  leave  these  behind  for  a  room  with  lamps : 
And  to  stand  with  our  Secret  mocking  itself, 
And  hiding  itself  amid  flowers  and  mandolins, 
Stared  at  by  all  between  salad  and  coffee. 
And  to  see  him  tremble,  and  feel  myself 
Prescient,  as  one  who  signs  a  bond  — 

218 


Not  flaming  with  gifts  and  pledges  heaped 

With  rosy  hands  over  his  brow. 

And  then,  O  night !  deliberate  !  unlovely ! 

With  all  of  our  wooing  blotted  out  by  the  winning, 

In  a  chosen  room  in  an  hour  that  was  known  to  all ! 

Next  day  he  sat  so  listless,  almost  cold, 

So  strangely  changed,  wondering  why  I  wept, 

Till  a  kind  of  sick  despair  and  voluptuous  madness 

Seized  us  to  make  the  pact  of  death. 

A  stalk  of  the  earth-sphere, 

Frail  as  star-light; 

Waiting  to  be  drawn  once  again 

Into  creation's  stream. 

But  next  time  to  be  given  birth 

Gazed  at  by  Raphael  and  St.  Francis 

Sometimes  as  they  pass. 

For  I  am  their  little  brother, 

To  be  known  clearly  face  to  face 

Through  a  cycle  of  birth  hereafter  run. 

You  may  know  the  seed  and  the  soil ; 

You  may  feel  the  cold  rain  fall, 

But  only  the  earth-sphere,  only  heaven 

Knows  the  secret  of  the  seed 

In  the  nuptial  chamber  under  the  soil. 

Throw  me  into  the  stream  again, 

Give  me  another  trial  — 

Save  me,  Shelley ! 

219 


#nne  Kutleage 


OUT  of  me  unworthy  and  unknown 

The  vibrations  of  deathless  music; 

"With  malice  toward  none,  with  charity  for  all." 

Out  of  me  the  forgiveness  of  millions  toward  millions, 

And  the  beneficent  face  of  a  nation 

Shining  with  justice  and  truth. 

I  am  Anne  Rutledge  who  sleep  beneath  these  weeds, 

Beloved  in  life  of  Abraham  Lincoln, 

Wedded  to  him,  not  through  union, 

But  through  separation. 

Bloom  forever,  O  Republic, 

From  the  dust  of  my  bosom ! 


220 


Camlet  spicure 

IN  a  lingering  fever  many  visions  come  to  you : 

I  was  in  the  little  house  again 

With  its  great  yard  of  clover 

Running  down  to  the  board-fence, 

Shadowed  by  the  oak  tree, 

Where  we  children  had  our  swing. 

Yet  the  little  house  was  a  manor  hall 

Set  in  a  lawn,  and  by  the  lawn  was  the  sea. 

I  was  in  the  room  where  little  Paul 

Strangled  from  diphtheria, 

But  yet  it  was  not  this  room  — 

It  was  a  sunny  verandah  enclosed 

With  mullioned  windows, 

And  in  a  chair  sat  a  man  in  a  dark  cloak, 

With  a  face  like  Euripides. 

He  had  come  to  visit  me,  or  I  had  gone  to  visit  him  — 

I  could  not  tell. 

We  could  hear  the  beat  of  the  sea,  the  clover  nodded 

Under  a  summer  wind,  and  little  Paul  came 

With  clover  blossoms  to  the  window  and  smiled. 

Then  I  said  :   "What  is  'divine  despair,'  Alfred  ?" 

"Have  you  read  'Tears,  Idle  Tears'  ?"  he  asked. 

221 


"Yes,  but  you  do  not  there  express  divine  despair." 
"My  poor  friend,"  he  answered,  "that  was  why  the 

despair 
Was  divine." 


222 


YOUR  red  blossoms  amid  green  leaves 

Are  drooping,  beautiful  geranium  ! 

But  you  do  not  ask  for  water. 

You  cannot  speak !     You  do  not  need  to  speak  — 

Everyone  knows  that  you  are  dying  of  thirst, 

Yet  they  do  not  bring  water ! 

They  pass  on,  saying  : 

"The  geranium  wants  water." 

And  I,  who  had  happiness  to  share 

And  longed  to  share  your  happiness; 

I  who  loved  you,  Spoon  River, 

And  craved  your  love, 

Withered  before  your  eyes,  Spoon  River  — 

Thirsting,  thirsting, 

Voiceless  from  chasteness  of  soul  to  ask  you  for  love, 

You  who  knew  and  saw  me  perish  before  you, 

Like  this  geranium  which  someone  has  planted  over 

me, 
And  left  to  die. 


223 


.  J?ernDon 

THERE  by  the  window  in  the  old  house 

Perched  on  the  bluff,  overlooking  miles  of  valley, 

My  days  of  labor  closed,  sitting  out  life's  decline, 

Day  by  day  did  I  look  in  my  memory, 

As  one  who  gazes  in  an  enchantress'  crystal  globe, 

And  I  saw  the  figures  of  the  past, 

As  if  in  a  pageant  glassed  by  a  shining  dream, 

Move  through  the  incredible  sphere  of  time. 

And  I  saw  a  man  arise 'from  the  soil  like  a  fabled 

giant 

And  throw  himself  over  a  deathless  destiny, 
Master  of  great  armies,  head  of  the  republic, 
Bringing  together  into  a  dithyramb  of  recreative 

song 

The  epic  hopes  of  a  people ; 
At  the  same  time  Vulcan  of  sovereign  fires, 
Where  imperishable  shields  and  swords  were  beaten 

out 

From  spirits  tempered  in  heaven. 
Look  in  the  crystal !     See  how  he  hastens  on 
To  the  place  where  his  path  comes  up  to  the  path 
Of  a  child  of  Plutarch  and  Shakespeare. 

224 


O  Lincoln,  actor  indeed,  playing  well  your  part, 
And  Booth,  who  strode  in  a  mimic  play  within  the 

play, 

Often  and  often  I  saw  you, 

As  the  cawing  crows  winged  their  way  to  the  wood 
Over  my  house-top  at  solemn  sunsets, 
There  by  my  window, 
Alone. 


225 


Kebetca 

SPRING  and  Summer,  Fall  and  Winter  and  Spring, 
After  each  other  drifting,  past  my  window  drifting ! 
And  I  lay  so  many  years  watching  them  drift  and 

counting 

The  years  till  a  terror  came  in  my  heart  at  times, 
With  the  feeling  that  I  had  become  eternal ;   at  last 
My  hundredth  year  was  reached !    And  still  I  lay 
Hearing  the  tick  of  the  clock,  and  the  low  of  cattle 
And  the  scream  of  a  jay  flying  through  falling  leaves ! 
Day  after  day  alone  in  a  room  of  the  house 
Of  a  daughter-in-law  stricken  with  age  and  gray. 
And  by  night,  or  looking  out  of  the  window  by  day 
My  thought  ran  back,  it  seemed,   through  infinite 

time 

To  North  Carolina  and  all  my  girlhood  days, 
And  John,  my  John,  away  to  the  war  with  the  British, 
And  all  the  children,  the  deaths,  and  all  the  sorrows. 
And  that  stretch  of  years  like  a  prairie  in  Illinois 
Through  which  great  figures  passed  like  hurrying 

horsemen, 

Washington,  Jefferson,  Jackson,  Webster,  Clay. 
O  beautiful  young  republic  for  whom  my  John  and  I 

226 


Gave  all  of  our  strength  and  love ! 

And  O  my  John  ! 

Why,  when  I  lay  so  helpless  in  bed  for  years, 

Praying  for  you  to  come,  was  your  coming  delayed  ? 

Seeing  that  with  a  cry  of  rapture,  like  that  I  uttered 

When  you  found  me  in  old  Virginia  after  the  war, 

I  cried  when  I  beheld  you  there  by  the  bed, 

As  the  sun  stood  low  in  the  west  growing  smaller  and 

fainter 
In  the  light  of  your  face ! 


227 


UtitlirrforD  ;T»cOoir>rU 

THEY  brought  me  ambrotypes 

Of  the  old  pioneers  to  enlarge. 

And  sometimes  one  sat  for  me  — 

Some  one  who  was  in  being 

When  giant  hands  from  the  womb  of  the  world 

Tore  the  republic. 

What  was  it  in  their  eyes  ?  — 

For  I  could  never  fathom 

That  mystical  pathos  of  drooped  eyelids, 

And  the  serene  sorrow  of  their  eyes. 

It  was  like  a  pool  of  water, 

Amid  oak  trees  at  the  edge  of  a  forest, 

Where  the  leaves  fall, 

As  you  hear  the  crow  of  a  cock 

From  a  far-off  farm  house,  seen  near  the  hills 

Where  the  third  generation  lives,  and  the  strong  men 

And  the  strong  women  are  gone  and  forgotten. 

And  these  grand-children  and  great  grand-children 

Of  the  pioneers ! 

Truly  did  my  camera  record  their  faces,  too, 

With  so  much  of  the  old  strength  gone, 

And  the  old  faith  gone, 

And  the  old  mastery  of  life  gone, 

And  the  old  courage  gone, 

Which  labors  and  loves  and  suffers  and  sings 

Under  the  sun ! 

228 


t)iinnal)  Armstrong 

I  WROTE  him  a  letter  asking  him  for  old  times'  sake 

To  discharge  my  sick  boy  from  the  army; 

But  maybe  he  couldn't  read  it. 

Then  I  went  to  town  and  had  James  Garber, 

Who  wrote  beautifully,  write  him  a  letter; 

But  maybe  that  was  lost  in  the  mails. 

So  I  traveled  all  the  way  to  Washington. 

I  was  more  than  an  hour  finding  the  White  House. 

And  when  I  found  it  they  turned  me  away, 

Hiding  their  smiles.     Then  I  thought : 

"Oh,  well,  he  ain't  the  same  as  when  I  boarded  him 

And  he  and  my  husband  worked  together 

And  all  of  us  called  him  Abe,  there  in  Menard." 

As  a  last  attempt  I  turned  to  a  guard  and  said  : 

"Please  say  it's  old  Aunt  Hannah  Armstrong 

From  Illinois,  come  to  see  him  about  her  sick  boy 

In  the  army." 

Well,  just  in  a  moment  they  let  me  in ! 

And  when  he  saw  me  he  broke  in  a  laugh, 

And  dropped  his  business  as  president, 

And  wrote  in  his  own  hand  Doug's  discharge, 

Talking  the  while  of  the  early  days, 

And  telling  stories. 


229 


Lttcm'oa 

I  WENT  to  the  dances  at  Chandlerville, 

And  played  snap-out  at  Winchester. 

One  time  we  changed  partners, 

Driving  home  in  the  moonlight  of  middle  June, 

And  then  I  found  Davis. 

We  were  married  and  lived  together  for  seventy  years, 

Enjoying,  working,  raising  the  twelve  children, 

Eight  of  whom  we  lost 

Ere  I  had  reached  the  age  of  sixty. 

I  spun,  I  wove,  I  kept  the  house,  I  nursed  the  sick, 

I  made  the  garden,  and  for  holiday 

Rambled  over  the  fields  where  sang  the  larks, 

And  by  Spoon  River  gathering  many  a  shell, 

And  many  a  flower  and  medicinal  weed  — 

Shouting  to  the  wooded  hills,  singing  to  the  green 

valleys. 

At  ninety-six  I  had  lived  enough,  that  is  all, 
And  passed  to  a  sweet  repose. 
What  is  this  I  hear  of  sorrow  and  weariness, 
Anger,  discontent  and  drooping  hopes  ? 
Degenerate  sons  and  daughters, 
Life  is  too  strong  for  you  — 
It  takes  life  to  love  Life. 

230 


SUPPOSE  it  is  nothing  but  the  hive : 

That  there  are  drones  and  workers 

And  queens,  and  nothing  but  storing  honey  — 

(Material  things  as  well  as  culture  and  wisdom)  — 

For  the  next  generation,  this  generation  never  living, 

Except  as  it  swarms  in  the  sun-light  of  youth, 

Strengthening  its  wings  on  what  has  been  gathered, 

And  tasting,  on  the  way  to  the  hive 

From  the  clover  field,  the  delicate  spoil. 

Suppose  all  this,  and  suppose  the  truth : 

That  the  nature  of  man  is  greater 

Than  nature's  need  in  the  hive; 

And  you  must  bear  the  burden  of  life, 

As  well  as  the  urge  from  your  spirit's  excess  — 

Well,  I  say  to  live  it  out  like  a  god 

Sure  of  immortal  life,  though  you  are  in  doubt, 

Is  the  way  to  live  it. 

If  that  doesn't  make  God  proud  of  you, 

Then  God  is  nothing  but  gravitation, 

Or  sleep  is  the  golden  goal. 


231 


SUtman 

DID  I  follow  Truth  wherever  she  led, 

And  stand  against  the  whole  world  for  a  cause, 

And  uphold  the  weak  against  the  strong  ? 

If  I  did  I  would  be  remembered  among  men 

As  I  was  known  in  life  among  the  people, 

And  as  I  was  hated  and  loved  on  earth, 

Therefore,  build  no  monument  to  me, 

And  carve  no  bust  for  me, 

Lest,  though  I  become  not  a  demi-god, 

The  reality  of  my  soul  be  lost, 

So  that  thieves  and  liars, 

Who  were  my  enemies  and  destroyed  me, 

And  the  children  of  thieves  and  liars, 

May  claim  me  and  affirm  before  my  bust 

That  they  stood  with  me  in  the  days  of  my  defeat. 

Build  me  no  monument 

Lest  my  memory  be  perverted  to  the  uses 

Of  lying  and  oppression. 

My  lovers  and  their  children  must  not  be  dispossessed 

of  me; 

I  would  be  the  untarnished  possession  forever 
Of  those  for  whom  I  lived. 

232 


2f]enme 

NOT,  where  the  stairway  turns  in  the  dark, 

A  hooded  figure,  shriveled  under  a  flowing  cloak ! 

Not  yellow  eyes  in  the  room  at  night, 

Staring  out  from  a  surface  of  cobweb  gray ! 

And  not  the  flap  of  a  condor  wing, 

When  the  roar  of  life  in  your  ears  begins 

As  a  sound  heard  never  before ! 

But  on  a  sunny  afternoon, 

By  a  country  road, 

Where  purple  rag-weeds  bloom  along  a  straggling 

fence, 

And  the  field  is  gleaned,  and  the  air  is  still, 
To  see  against  the  sun-light  something  black, 
Like  a  blot  with  an  iris  rim  — 
That  is  the  sign  to  eyes  of  second  sight.  .  .  . 
And  that  I  saw  I 


233 


Columbus  Cljettep 

THIS  weeping  willow ! 

Why  do  you  not  plant  a  few 

For  the  millions  of  children  not  yet  born, 

As  well  as  for  us  ? 

Are  they  not  non-existent,  or  cells  asleep 

Without  mind  ? 

Or  do  they  come  to  earth,  their  birth 

Rupturing  the  memory  of  previous  being  ? 

Answer !     The  field  of  unexplored  intuition  is  yours. 

But  in  any  case  why  not  plant  willows  for  them, 

As  well  as  for  us  ? 


234 


SEallace  3?ergu0on 

THERE  at  Geneva  where  Mt.  Blanc  floated  above 
The  wine-hued  lake  like  a  cloud,  when   a  breeze 

was  blown 

Out  of  an  empty  sky  of  blue,  and  the  roaring  Rhone 
Hurried  under  the  bridge  through  chasms  of  rock; 
And  the  music   along  the  cafes  was   part  of  the 

splendor 

Of  dancing  water  under  a  torrent  of  light ; 
And  the  purer  part  of  the  genius  of  Jean  Rousseau 
Was  the  silent  music  of  all  we  saw  or  heard  — 
There  at  Geneva,  I  say,  was  the  rapture  less 
Because  I  could  not  link  myself  with  the  I  of  yore, 
When  twenty  years  before  I  wandered  about  Spoon 

River  ? 

Nor  remember  what  I  was  nor  what  I  felt  ? 
We  live  in  the  hour  all  free  of  the  hours  gone  by. 
Therefore,  O  soul,  if  you  lose  yourself  in  death, 
And  wake  in  some  Geneva  by  some  Mt.  Blanc, 
What  do  you  care  if  you  know  not  yourself  as  the  you 
Who  lived  and  loved  in  a  little  corner  of  earth 
Known  as  Spoon  River  ages  and  ages  vanished  ? 


235 


You  observe  the  carven  hand 

With  the  index  finger  pointing  heavenward. 

That  is  the  direction,  no  doubt. 

But  how  shall  one  follow  it  ? 

It  is  well  to  abstain  from  murder  and  lust, 

To  forgive,  do  good  to  others,  worship  God 

Without  graven  images. 

But  these  are  external  means  after  all 

By  which  you  chiefly  do  good  to  yourself. 

The  inner  kernel  is  freedom, 

It  is  light,  purity  — 

I  can  no  more, 

Find  the  goal  or  lose  it,  according  to  your  vision. 


236 


Claflin 

I  WAS  the  laughing-stock  of  the  village, 

Chiefly  of  the  people  of  good  sense,  as  they  call 

themselves  — 

Also  of  the  learned,  like  Rev.  Peet,  who  read  Greek 
The  same  as  English. 
For  instead  of  talking  free  trade, 
Or  preaching  some  form  of  baptism ; 
Instead  of  believing  in  the  efficacy 
Of  walking  cracks  —  picking  up  pins  the  right  way, 
Seeing  the  new  moon  over  the  right  shoulder, 
Or  curing  rheumatism  with  blue  glass, 
I  asserted  the  sovereignty  of  my  own  soul. 
Before  Mary  Baker  G.  Eddy  even  got  started 
With  what  she  called  science 
I  had  mastered  the  "Bhagavad  Gita," 
And  cured  my  soul,  before  Mary 
Began  to  cure  bodies  with  souls  — 
Peace  to  all  worlds  ! 


237 


Ifcoefe  3|oe 

WHY  are  you  running  so  fast  hither  and  thither 

Chasing  midges  or  butterflies  ? 

Some  of  you  are  standing  solemnly  scratching  for 

grubs ; 

Some  of  you  are  waiting  for  corn  to  be  scattered. 
This  is  life,  is  it  ? 

Cock-a-doodle-do  !     Very  well,  Thomas  Rhodes, 
You  are  cock  of  the  walk,  no  doubt. 
But  here  comes  Elliott  Hawkins, 
Gluck,  Gluck,  Gluck,  attracting  political  followers. 
Quah  !  quah  !  quah  !  why  so  poetical,  Minerva, 
This  gray  morning  ? 

Kittie  —  quah  —  quah  !  for  shame,  Lucius  Atherton, 
The  raucous  squawk  you  evoked  from  the  throat 
Of  Aner  Clute  will  be  taken  up  later 
By  Mrs.  Benjamin  Pantier  as  a  cry 
Of  votes  for  women  :   Ka  dook  —  dook ! 
What  inspiration  has  come  to  you,  Margaret  Fuller 

Slack  ? 

And  why  does  your  gooseberry  eye 
Flit  so  liquidly,  Tennessee  Claflin  Shope  ? 
Are  you  trying  to  fathom  the  esotericism  of  an  egg  ? 

238 


Your  voice  is  very  metallic  this  morning,  Hortense 

Robbins  — 

Almost  like  a  guinea  hen's  ! 

Quah  !     That  was  a  guttural  sigh,  Isaiah  Beethoven ; 
Did  you  see  the  shadow  of  the  hawk, 
Or  did  you  step  upon  the  drumsticks 
Which  the  cook  threw  out  this  morning  ? 
Be  chivalric,  heroic,  or  aspiring, 
Metaphysical,  religious,  or  rebellious, 
You  shall  never  get  out  of  the  barnyard 
Except  by  way  of  over  the  fence 
Mixed  with  potato  peelings  and  such  into  the  trough ! 


239 


3flmanuel 


I  BEGAN  with  Sir  William  Hamilton's  lectures. 

Then  studied  Dugald  Stewart; 

And  then  John  Locke  on  the  Understanding, 

And  then  Descartes,  Fichte  and  Schelling, 

Kant  and  then  Schopenhauer  — 

Books  I  borrowed  from  old  Judge  Somers. 

All  read  with  rapturous  industry 

Hoping  it  was  reserved  to  me 

To  grasp  the  tail  of  the  ultimate  secret, 

And  drag  it  out  of  its  hole. 

My  soul  flew  up  ten  thousand  miles, 

And  only  the  moon  looked  a  little  bigger. 

Then  I  fell  back,  how  glad  of  the  earth  ! 

All  through  the  soul  of  William  Jones 

Who  showed  me  a  letter  of  John  Muir. 


240 


Samuel  Gardner 

I  WHO  kept  the  greenhouse, 

Lover  of  trees  and  flowers, 

Oft  in  life  saw  this  umbrageous  elm, 

Measuring  its  generous  branches  with  my  eye, 

And  listened  to  its  rejoicing  leaves 

Lovingly  patting  each  other 

With  sweet  aeolian  whispers. 

And  well  they  might : 

For  the  roots  had  grown  so  wide  and  deep 

That  the  soil  of  the  hill  could  not  withhold 

Aught  of  its  virtue,  enriched  by  rain, 

And  warmed  by  the  sun; 

But  yielded  it  all  to  the  thrifty  roots, 

Through  which  it  was  drawn  and  whirled  to  the 

trunk, 

And  thence  to  the  branches,  and  into  the  leaves, 
Wherefrom  the  breeze  took  life  and  sang. 
Now  I,  an  under-tenant  of  the  earth,  can  see 
That  the  branches  of  a  tree 
Spread  no  wider  than  its  roots. 
And  how  shall  the  soul  of  a  man 
Be  larger  than  the  life  he  has  lived  ? 
241 


ffi>oto  fcritt 

SAMUEL  is  forever  talking  of  his  elm  — 

But  I  did  not  need  to  die  to  learn  about  roots: 

I,  who  dug  all  the  ditches  about  Spoon  River. 

Look  at  my  elm  ! 

Sprung  from  as  good  a  seed  as  his, 

Sown  at  the  same  time, 

It  is  dying  at  the  top  : 

Not  from  lack  of  life,  nor  fungus, 

Nor  destroying  insect,  as  the  sexton  thinks. 

Look,  Samuel,  where  the  roots  have  struck  rock, 

And  can  no  further  spread. 

And  all  the  while  the  top  of  the  tree 

Is  tiring  itself  out,  and  dying, 

Trying  to  grow. 


242 


William  2fonfS 

ONCE  in  a  while  a  curious  weed  unknown  to  me, 

Needing  a  name  from  my  books ; 

Once  in  a  while  a  letter  from  Yeomans. 

Out  of  the  mussel-shells  gathered  along  the  shore 

Sometimes  a  pearl  with  a  glint  like  meadow  rue : 

Then  betimes  a  letter  from  Tyndall  in  England, 

Stamped  with  the  stamp  of  Spoon  River. 

I,  lover  of  Nature,  beloved  for  my  love  of  her, 

Held  such  converse  afar  with  the  great 

Who  knew  her  better  than  I. 

Oh,  there  is  neither  lesser  nor  greater, 

Save  as  we  make  her  greater  and  win  from  her  keener 

delight. 

With  shells  from  the  river  cover  me,  cover  me. 
I  lived  in  wonder,  worshipping  earth  and  heaven. 
I  have  passed  on  the  march  eternal  of  endless  life. 


243 


Militant  (fiioo&e 

To  all  in  the  village  I  seemed,  no  doubt, 

To  go  this  way  and  that  way,  aimlessly. 

But  here  by  the  river  you  can  see  at  twilight 

The  soft-winged  bats  fly  zig-zag  here  and  there  — 

They  must  fly  so  to  catch  their  food. 

And  if  you  have  ever  lost  your  way  at  night, 

In  the  deep  wood  near  Miller's  Ford, 

And  dodged  this  way  and  now  that, 

Wherever  the  light  of  the  Milky  Way  shone  through, 

Trying  to  find  the  path, 

You  should  understand  I  sought  the  way 

With  earnest  zeal,  and  all  my  wanderings 

Were  wanderings  in  the  quest. 


244 


%  Hilton 

WHENEVER  the  Presbyterian  bell 
Was  rung  by  itself,  I  knew  it  as  the  Presbyterian  bell. 
But  when  its  sound  was  mingled 
With  the  sound  of  the  Methodist,  the  Christian, 
The  Baptist  and  the  Congregational, 
I  could  no  longer  distinguish  it, 
Nor  any  one  from  the  others,  or  either  of  them. 
And  as  many  voices  called  to  me  in  life 
Marvel  not  that  I  could  not  tell 
The  true  from  the  false, 

Nor  even,   at  last,  the  voice  that  I  should   have 
known. 


245 


jfaitij 

AT  first  you  will  know  not  what  they  mean, 

And  you  may  never  know, 

And  we  may  never  tell  you  :  — 

These  sudden  flashes  in  your  soul, 

Like  lambent  lightning  on  snowy  clouds 

At  midnight  when  the  moon  is  full. 

They  come  in  solitude,  or  perhaps 

You  sit  with  your  friend,  and  all  at  once 

A  silence  falls  on  speech,  and  his  eyes 

Without  a  flicker  glow  at  you  :  — 

You  two  have  seen  the  secret  together, 

He  sees  it  in  you,  and  you  in  him. 

And  there  you  sit  thrilling  lest  the  Mystery 

Stand  before  you  and  strike  you  dead 

With  a  splendor  like  the  sun's. 

Be  brave,  all  souls  who  have  such  visions ! 

As  your  body's  alive  as  mine  is  dead, 

You're  catching  a  little  whifF  of  the  ether 

Reserved  for  God  Himself. 


246 


£>c!jolffeto 

GOD  !  ask  me  not  to  record  your  wonders, 

I  admit  the  stars  and  the  suns 

And  the  countless  worlds. 

But  I  have  measured  their  distances 

And  weighed  them  and  discovered  their  substances. 

I  have  devised  wings  for  the  air, 

And  keels  for  water, 

And  horses  of  iron  for  the  earth. 

I  have  lengthened  the  vision  you  gave  me  a  million 

times, 

And  the  hearing  you  gave  me  a  million  times, 
I  have  leaped  over  space  with  speech, 
And  taken  fire  for  light  out  of  the  air. 
I  have  built  great  cities  and  bored  through  the  hills, 
And  bridged  majestic  waters. 
I  have  written  the  Iliad  and  Hamlet ; 
And  I  have  explored  your  mysteries, 
And  searched  for  you  without  ceasing, 
And  found  you  again  after  losing  you 
In  hours  of  weariness  — 
And  I  ask  you  : 

How  would  you  like  to  create  a  sun 
And  the  next  day  have  the  worms 
Slipping  in  and  out  between  your  fingers  ? 
247 


I  WAS  Willie  Metcalf. 

They  used  to  call  me  "Doctor  Meyers" 

Because,  they  said,  I  looked  like  him. 

And  he  was  my  father,  according  to  Jack  McGuire. 

I  lived  in  the  livery  stable, 

Sleeping  on  the  floor 

Side  by  side  with  Roger  Baughman's  bulldog, 

Or  sometimes  in  a  stall. 

I  could  crawl  between  the  legs  of  the  wildest  horses 

Without  getting  kicked  —  we  knew  each  other. 

On  spring  days  I  tramped  through  the  country 

To  get  the  feeling,  which  I  sometimes  lost, 

That  I  was  not  a  separate  thing  from  the  earth. 

I  used  to  lose  myself,  as  if  in  sleep, 

By  lying  with  eyes  half-open  in  the  woods. 

Sometimes  I  talked  with  animals  —  even  toads  and 

snakes  — 

Anything  that  had  an  eye  to  look  into. 
Once  I  saw  a  stone  in  the  sunshine 
Trying  to  turn  into  jelly. 
In  April  days  in  this  cemetery 
The  dead  people  gathered  all  about  me, 
And  grew  still,  like  a  congregation  in  silent  prayer. 
I  never  knew  whether  I  was  a  part  of  the  earth 
With  flowers  growing  in  me,  or  whether  I  walked  — 
Now  I  know. 

248 


Millie  liDrnnmgton 

THEY  called  me  the  weakling,  the  simpleton, 

For  my  brothers  were  strong  and  beautiful, 

While  I,  the  last  child  of  parents  who  had  aged, 

Inherited  only  their  residue  of  power. 

But  they,  my  brothers,  were  eaten  up 

In  the  fury  of  the  flesh,  which  I  had  not, 

Made  pulp  in  the  activity  of  the  senses,  which  I  had 

not, 
Hardened  by  the  growth  of  the  lusts,  which  I  had 

not, 

Though  making  names  and  riches  for  themselves. 
Then  I,  the  weak  one,  the  simpleton, 
Resting  in  a  little  corner  of  life, 
Saw  a  vision,  and  through  me  many  saw  the  vision, 
Not  knowing  it  was  through  me. 
Thus  a  tree  sprang 
From  me,  a  mustard  seed. 


249 


<Tlir  IMllagr 

YE  young  debaters  over  the  doctrine 

Of  the  soul's  immortality, 

I  who  lie  here  was  the  village  atheist, 

Talkative,  contentious,  versed  in  the  arguments 

Of  the  infidels. 

But  through  a  long  sickness 

Coughing  myself  to  death 

I  read  the  Upanishads  and  the  poetry  of  Jesus. 

And  they  lighted  a  torch  of  hope  and  intuition 

And  desire  which  the  Shadow, 

Leading  me  swiftly  through  the  caverns  of  darkness, 

Could  not  extinguish. 

Listen  to  me,  ye  who  live  in  the  senses 

And  think  through  the  senses  only : 

Immortality  is  not  a  gift, 

Immortality  is  an  achievement; 

And  only  those  who  strive  mightily 

Shall  possess  it. 


250 


IN  the  lust  of  my  strength 

I  cursed  God,  but  he  paid  no  attention  to  me : 

I  might  as  well  have  cursed  the  stars. 

In  my  last  sickness  I  was  in  agony,  but  I  was  resolute 

And  I  cursed  God  for  my  suffering ; 

Still  He  paid  no  attention  to  me; 

He  left  me  alone,  as  He  had  always  done. 

I  might  as  well  have  cursed  the  Presbyterian  steeple. 

Then,  as  I  grew  weaker,  a  terror  came  over  me : 

Perhaps  I  had  alienated  God  by  cursing  him. 

One  day  Lydia  Humphrey  brought  me  a  bouquet 

And  it  occurred  to  me  to  try  to  make  friends  with 

God, 

So  I  tried  to  make  friends  with  Him ; 
But  I  might  as  well  have  tried  to  make  friends  with 

the  bouquet. 

Now  I  was  very  close  to  the  secret, 
For  I  really  could  make  friends  with  the  bouquet 
By  holding  close  to  me  the  love  in  me  for  the  bouquet 
And  so  I  was  creeping  upon  the  secret,  but  — 


251 


31ulian 

TOWARD  the  last 

The  truth  of  others  was  untruth  to  me ; 

The  justice  of  others  injustice  to  me; 

Their  reasons  for  death,  reasons  with  me  for  life ; 

Their  reasons  for  life,  reasons  with  me  for  death ; 

I  would  have  killed  those  they  saved, 

And  saved  those  they  killed. 

And  I  saw  how  a  god,  if  brought  to  earth, 

Must  act  out  what  he  saw  and  thought, 

And  could  not  live  in  this  world  of  men 

And  act  among  them  side  by  side 

Without  continual  clashes. 

The  dust's  for  crawling,  heaven's  for  flying  — 

Wherefore,  O  soul,  whose  wings  are  grown, 

Soar  upward  to  the  sun  ! 


252 


THEY  laughed  at  me  as  "  Prof.  Moon," 

As  a  boy  in  Spoon  River,  born  with  the  thirst 

Of  knowing  about  the  stars. 

They  jeered  when  I  spoke  of  the  lunar  mountains, 

And  the  thrilling  heat  and  cold, 

And  the  ebon  valleys  by  silver  peaks, 

And  Spica  quadrillions  of  miles  away, 

And  the  littleness  of  man. 

But  now  that  my  grave  is  honored,  friends, 

Let  it  not  be  because  I  taught 

The  lore  of  the  stars  in  Knox  College, 

But  rather  for  this :  that  through  the  stars 

I  preached  the  greatness  of  man, 

Who  is  none  the  less  a  part  of  the  scheme^of  things 

For  the  distance  of  Spica  or  the  Spiral  Nebulae ; 

Nor  any  the  less  a  part  of  the  question 

Of  what  the  drama  means. 


253 


AT  four  o'clock  in  late  October 

I  sat  alone  in  the  country  school-house 

Back  from  the  road  'mid  stricken  fields, 

And  an  eddy  of  wind  blew  leaves  on  the  pane, 

And  crooned  in  the  flue  of  the  cannon-stove, 

With  its  open  door  blurring  the  shadows 

With  the  spectral  glow  of  a  dying  fire. 

In  an  idle  mood  I  was  running  the  planchette  — 

All  at  once  my  wrist  grew  limp, 

And  my  hand  moved  rapidly  over  the  board, 

Till  the  name  of  "Charles  Guiteau"  was  spelled, 

Who  threatened  to  materialize  before  me. 

I  rose  and  fled  from  the  room  bare-headed 

Into  the  dusk,  afraid  of  my  gift. 

And  after  that  the  spirits  swarmed  — 

Chaucer,  Caesar,  Poe  and  Marlowe, 

Cleopatra  and  Mrs.  Surrat  — 

Wherever  I  went,  with  messages,  — 

Mere  trifling  twaddle,  Spoon  River  agreed. 

You  talk  nonsense  to  children,  don't  you  ? 

And  suppose  I  see  what  you  never  saw 

And  never  heard  of  and  have  no  word  for, 

I  must  talk  nonsense  when  you  ask  me 

What  it  is  I  see ! 


254 


3|ame$  Barber 

Do  you  remember,  passer-by,  the  path 

I  wore  across  the  lot  where  now  stands  the  opera 

house, 

Hasting  with  swift  feet  to  work  through  many  years  ? 
Take  its  meaning  to  heart : 

You  too  may  walk,  after  the  hills  at  Miller's  Ford 
Seem  no  longer  far  away; 
Long  after  you  see  them  near  at  hand, 
Beyond  four  miles  of  meadow  ; 
And  after  woman's  love  is  silent, 
Saying  no  more :   "I  will  save  you." 
And  after  the  faces  of  friends  and  kindred 
Become  as  faded  photographs,  pitifully  silent, 
Sad  for  the  look  which  means:    "We  cannot  help 

you." 

And  after  you  no  longer  reproach  mankind 
With  being  in  league  against  your  soul's  uplifted 

hands  — 

Themselves  compelled  at  midnight  and  at  noon 
To  watch  with  steadfast  eye  their  destinies ; 
After  you  have  these  understandings,  think  of  me 
And  of  my  path,  who  walked  therein  and  knew 
That  neither  man  nor  woman,  neither  toil, 
Nor  duty,  gold  nor  power 
Can  ease  the  longing  of  the  soul, 
The  loneliness  of  the  soul ! 
255 


BACK  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  to  and  from  the 
church, 

With  my  Bible  under  my  arm 

Till  I  was  gray  and  old ; 

Unwedded,  alone  in  the  world, 

Finding  brothers  and  sisters  in  the  congregation, 

And  children  in  the  church. 

I  know  they  laughed  and  thought  me  queer. 

I  knew  of  the  eagle  souls  that  flew  high  in  the  sun- 
light, 

Above  the  spire  of  the  church,  and  laughed  at  the 
church, 

Disdaining  me,  not  seeing  me. 

But  if  the  high  air  was  sweet  to  them,  sweet  was  the 
church  to  me. 

It  was  the  vision,  vision,  vision  of  the  poets 

Democratized ! 


256 


lie 

"WHAT  will  you  do  when  you  come  to  die, 

If  all  your  life  long  you  have  rejected  Jesus, 

And  know  as  you  lie  there,  He  is  not  your  friend  ?" 

Over  and  over  I  said,  I,  the  revivalist. 

Ah,  yes !   but  there  are  friends  and  friends. 

And  blessed  are  you,  say  I,  who  know  all  now, 

You  who  have  lost,  ere  you  pass, 

A  father  or  mother,  or  old  grandfather  or  mother, 

Some  beautiful  soul  that  lived  life  strongly, 

And  knew  you  all  through,  and  loved  you  ever, 

Who  would  not  fail  to  speak  for  you, 

And  give  God  an  intimate  view  of  your  soul, 

As  only  one  of  your  flesh  could  do  it. 

That  is  the  hand  your  hand  will  reach  for, 

To  lead  you  along  the  corridor 

To  the  court  where  you  are  a  stranger ! 


257 


0ustat>  Itictitrr 

AFTER  a.  long  day  of  work  in  my  hot-houses 

Sleep  was  sweet,  but  if  you  sleep  on  your  left  side 

Your  dreams  may  be  abruptly  ended. 

I  was  among  my  flowers  where  some  one 

Seemed  to  be  raising  them  on  trial, 

As  if  after-while  to  be  transplanted 

To  a  larger  garden  of  freer  air. 

And  I  was  disembodied  vision 

Amid  a  light,  as  it  were  the  sun 

Had  floated  in  and  touched  the  roof  of  glass 

Like  a  toy  balloon  and  softly  bursted, 

And  etherealized  in  golden  air. 

And  all  was  silence,  except  the  splendor 

Was  immanent  with  thought  as  clear 

As  a  speaking  voice,  and  I,  as  thought, 

Could  hear  a  Presence  think  as  he  walked 

Between  the  boxes  pinching  off  leaves, 

Looking  for  bugs  and  noting  values, 

With  an  eye  that  saw  it  all :  — 

"Homer,  oh  yes  !     Pericles,  good. 

Caesar  Borgia,  what  shall  be  done  with  it  ? 

Dante,  too  much  manure,  perhaps. 

Napoleon,  leave  him  awhile  as  yet. 

Shelley,  more  soil.     Shakespeare,  needs  spraying  — " 

Clouds,  eh !  — 

258 


0rlo 

Dm  you  ever  see  an  alligator 

Come  up  to  the  air  from  the  mud, 

Staring  blindly  under  the  full  glare  of  noon  ? 

Have  you  seen  the  stabled  horses  at  night 

Tremble  and  start  back  at  the  sight  of  a  lantern  ? 

Have  you  ever  walked  in  darkness 

When  an  unknown  door  was  open  before  you 

And  you  stood,  it  seemed,  in  the  light  of  a  thousand 

candles 

Of  delicate  wax  ? 

Have  you  walked  with  the  wind  in  your  ears 
And  the  sunlight  about  you 

And  found  it  suddenly  shine  with  an  inner  splendor  ? 
Out  of  the  mud  many  times, 
Before  many  doors  of  light, 
Through  many  fields  of  splendor, 
Where  around  your  steps  a  soundless  glory  scatters 
Like  new-fallen  snow, 

Will  you  go  through  earth,  O  strong  of  soul, 
And  through  unnumbered  heavens 
To  the  final  flame ! 


259 


Captain  <$rlan&o  Million 

OH,  you  young  radicals  and  dreamers, 

You  dauntless  fledglings 

Who  pass  by  my  headstone, 

Mock  not  its  record  of  my  captaincy  in  the  army 

And  my  faith  in  God  ! 

They  are  not  denials  of  each  other. 

Go  by  reverently,  and  read  with  sober  care 

How  a  great  people,  riding  with  defiant  shouts 

The  centaur  of  Revolution, 

Spurred  and  whipped  to  frenzy, 

Shook  with  terror,  seeing  the  mist  of  the  sea 

Over  the  precipice  they  were  nearing, 

And  fell  from  his  back  in  precipitate  awe 

To  celebrate  the  Feast  of  the  Supreme  Being. 

Moved  by  the  same  sense  of  vast  reality 

Of  life  and  death,  and  burdened  as  they  were 

With  the  fate  of  a  race, 

How  was  I,  a  little  blasphemer, 

Caught  in  the  drift  of  a  nation's  unloosened  flood, 

To  remain  a  blasphemer, 

And  a  captain  in  the  army  ? 


260 


Carlisle 

PASSER-BY,  sin  beyond  any  sin 

Is  the  sin  of  blindness  of  souls  to  other  souls. 

And  joy  beyond  any  joy  is  the  joy 

Of  having  the  good  in  you  seen,  and  seeing  the  good 

At  the  miraculous  moment ! 

Here  I  confess  to  a  lofty  scorn, 

And  an  acrid  skepticism. 

But  do  you  remember  the  liquid  that  Penniwit 

Poured  on  tintypes  making  them  blue 

With  a  mist  like  hickory  smoke  ? 

Then  how  the  picture  began  to  clear 

Till  the  face  came  forth  like  life  ? 

So  you  appeared  to  me,  neglected  ones, 

And  enemies  too,  as  I  went  along 

With  my  face  growing  clearer  to  you  as  yours 

Grew  clearer  to  me. 

We  were  ready  then  to  walk  together 

And  sing  in  chorus  and  chant  the  dawn 

Of  life  that  is  wholly  life. 


261 


WHO  carved  this  shattered  harp  on  my  stone  ? 

I  died  to  you,  no  doubt.     But  how  many  harps  and 

pianos 

Wired  I  and  tightened  and  disentangled  for  you, 
Making  them   sweet   again  —  with   tuning  fork  or 

without  ? 
Oh  well !    A  harp  leaps  out  of  the  ear  of  a  man,  you 

say, 
But  whence  the  ear  that  orders  the  length  of  the 

strings 

To  a  magic  of  numbers  flying  before  your  thought 
Through  a  door  that  closes  against  your  breathless 

wonder  ? 

Is  there  no  Ear  round  the  ear  of  a  man,  that  it  senses 
Through  strings  and  columns  of  air  the  soul  of  sound  ? 
I  thrill  as  I  call  it  a  tuning  fork  that  catches 
The  waves  of  mingled  music  and  light  from  afar, 
The  antennae  of  Thought  that  listens  through  utmost 

space. 

Surely  the  concord  that  ruled  my  spirit  is  proof 
Of  an  Ear  that  tuned  me,  able  to  tune  me  over 
And  use  me  again  if  I  am  worthy  to  use. 

262 


ITuDson 

ON  a  mountain  top  above  the  clouds 

That  streamed  like  a  sea  below  me 

I  said  that  peak  is  the  thought  of  Budda, 

And  that  one  is  the  prayer  of  Jesus, 

And  this  one  is  the  dream  of  Plato, 

And  that  one  there  the  song  of  Dante, 

And  this  is  Kant  and  this  is  Newton, 

And  this  is  Milton  and  this  is  Shakespeare, 

And  this  the  hope  of  the  Mother  Church, 

And  this  —  why  all  these  peaks  are  poems, 

Poems  and  prayers  that  pierce  the  clouds. 

And  I  said  "What  does  God  do  with  mountains 

That  rise  almost  to  heaven  ?" 


263 


femcatD 

IN  the  last  spring  I  ever  knew, 

In  those  last  days, 

I  sat  in  the  forsaken  orchard 

Where  beyond  fields  of  greenery  shimmered 

The  hills  at  Miller's  Ford; 

Just  to  muse  on  the  apple  tree 

With  its  ruined  trunk  and  blasted  branches, 

And  shoots  of  green  whose  delicate  blossoms 

Were  sprinkled  over  the  skeleton  tangle, 

Never  to  grow  in  fruit. 

And  there  was  I  with  my  spirit  girded 

By  the  flesh  half  dead,  the  senses  numb, 

Yet  thinking  of  youth  and  the  earth  in  youth,  — 

Such  phantom  blossoms  palely  shining 

Over  the  lifeless  boughs  of  Time. 

O  earth  that  leaves  us  ere  heaven  takes  us ! 

Had  I  been  only  a  tree  to  shiver 

With  dreams  of  spring  and  a  leafy  youth, 

Then  I  had  fallen  in  the  cyclone 

Which  swept  me  out  of  the  soul's  suspense 

Where  it's  neither  earth  nor  heaven. 

264 


0aron 

BETTER  than  granite,  Spoon  River, 

Is  the  memory-picture  you  keep  of  me 

Standing  before  the  pioneer  men  and  women 

There  at  Concord  Church  on  Communion  day. 

Speaking  in  broken  voice  of  the  peasant  youth 

Of  Galilee  who  went  to  the  city 

And  was  killed  by  bankers  and  lawyers; 

My  voice  mingling  with  the  June  wind 

That  blew  over  wheat  fields  from  Atterbury; 

While  the  white  stones  in  the  burying  ground 

Around  the  Church  shimmered  in  the  summer  sun. 

And  there,  though  my  own  memories 

Were  too  great  to  bear,  were  you,  O  pioneers, 

With  bowed  heads  breathing  forth  your  sorrow 

For  the  sons  killed  in  battle  and  the  daughters 

And  little  children  who  vanished  in  life's  morning, 

Or  at  the  intolerable  hour  of  noon. 

But  in  those  moments  of  tragic  silence, 

When  the  wine  and  bread  were  passed, 

Came  the  reconciliation  for  us  — 

Us  the  ploughmen  and  the  hewers  of  wood, 

Us  the  peasants,  brothers  of  the  peasant  of  Galilee  - 

To  us  came  the  Comforter 

And  the  consolation  of  tongues  of  flame  ! 

265 


THEY  told  me  I  had  three  months  to  live, 

So  I  crept  to  Bernadotte, 

And  sat  by  the  mill  for  hours  and  hours 

Where  the  gathered  waters  deeply  moving 

Seemed  not  to  move : 

O  world,  that's  you  ! 

You  are  but  a  widened  place  in  the  river 

Where  Life  looks  down  and  we  rejoice  for  her 

Mirrored  in  us,  and  so  we  dream 

And  turn  away,  but  when  again 

We  look  for  the  face,  behold  the  low-lands 

And  blasted  cotton-wood  trees  where  we  empty 

Into  the  larger  stream  ! 

But  here  by  the  mill  the  castled  clouds 

Mocked  themselves  in  the  dizzy  water; 

And  over  its  agate  floor  at  night 

The  flame  of  the  moon  ran  under  my  eyes 

Amid  a  forest  stillness  broken 

By  a  flute  in  a  hut  on  the  hill. 

At  last  when  I  came  to  lie  in  bed 

266 


Weak  and  in  pain,  with  the  dreams  about  me, 
The  soul  of  the  river  had  entered  my  soul, 
And  the  gathered  power  of  my  soul  was  moving 
So  swiftly  it  seemed  to  be  at  rest 
Under  cities  of  cloud  and  under 
Spheres  of  silver  and  changing  worlds  — 
Until  I  saw  a  flash  of  trumpets 
Above  the  battlements  over  Time  I 


267 


<fl;lifal)  llBrofaming 

I  WAS  among  multitudes  of  children 

Dancing  at  the  foot  of  a  mountain. 

A  breeze  blew  out  of  the  east  and  swept  them  as 
leaves, 

Driving  some  up  the  slopes.  .  .  .     All  was  changed. 

Here  were   flying  lights,   and   mystic   moons,   and 
dream-music. 

A  cloud  fell  upon  us.     When  it  lifted  all  was  changed. 

I  was  now  amid  multitudes  who  were  wrangling. 

Then  a  figure  in  shimmering  gold,  and  one  with  a 
trumpet, 

And  one  with  a  sceptre  stood  before  me. 

They  mocked  me  and  danced  a  rigadoon  and  van- 
ished. .  .  . 

All  was  changed  again.     Out  of  a  bower  of  poppies 

A  woman   bared   her  breasts   and   lifted   her  open 
mouth  to  mine. 

I  kissed  her.     The  taste  of  her  lips  was  like  salt. 

She  left  blood  on  my  lips.     I  fell  exhausted. 

I  arose  and  ascended  higher,  but  a  mist  as  from  an 
iceberg 

Clouded  my  steps.     I  was  cold  and  in  pain. 

268 


Then  the  sun  streamed  on  me  again, 

And  I  saw  the  mists  below  me  hiding  all  below  them. 

And  I,  bent  over  my  staff,  knew  myself 

Silhouetted  against  the  snow.     And  above  me 

Was  the  soundless  air,  pierced  by  a  cone  of  ice, 

Over  which  hung  a  solitary  star ! 

A  shudder  of  ecstasy,  a  shudder  of  fear 

Ran  through  me.     But  I  could  not  return  to  the 

slopes  — 

Nay,  I  wished  not  to  return. 
For  the  spent  waves  of  the  symphony  of  freedom 
Lapped  the  ethereal  cliffs  about  me. 
Therefore  I  climbed  to  the  pinnacle. 
I  flung  away  my  staff. 
I  touched  that  star 
With  my  outstretched  hand. 
I  vanished  utterly. 

For  the  mountain  delivers  to  Infinite  Truth 
Whosoever  touches  the  star! 


269 


jforD 

Do  you  remember,  O  Delphic  Apollo, 

The  sunset  hour  by  the  river,  when  Mickey  M'Grew 

Cried,   "There's   a   ghost,"    and    I,    "It's   Delphic 

Apollo"; 
And  the  son  of  the  banker  derided  us,  saying,  "It's 

light 
By  the  flags  at  the  water's  edge,  you  half-witted 

fools." 
And  from  thence,  as  the  wearisome  years  rolled  on, 

long  after 
Poor  Mickey  fell  down  in  the  water  tower  to  his 

death, 

Down,  down,  through  bellowing  darkness,  I  carried 
The  vision  which  perished  with  him  like  a  rocket 

which  falls 

And  quenches  its  light  in  earth,  and  hid  it  for  fear 
Of  the  son  of  the  banker,  calling  on  Plutus  to  save 

me  ? 

Avenged  were  you  for  the  shame  of  a  fearful  heart, 
Who  left  me  alone  till  I  saw  you  again  in  an  hour 
When  1  seemed  to  be  turned  to  a  tree  with  trunk  and 

branches 

270 


Growing  indurate,  turning  to  stone,  yet  burgeoning 
In  laurel  leaves,  in  hosts  of  lambent  laurel, 
Quivering,  fluttering,  shrinking,  fighting  the  numb- 
ness 
Creeping  into  their  veins  from  the  dying  trunk  and 

branches ! 

'Tis  vain,  O  youth,  to  fly  the  call  of  Apollo. 
Fling  yourselves  in  the  fire,  die  with  a  song  of  spring, 
If  die  you  must  in  the  spring.     For  none  shall  look 
On  the  face  of  Apollo  and  live,  and  choose  you  must 
'Twixt  death  in  the  flame  and  death  after  years  of 

sorrow, 

Rooted  fast  in  the  earth,  feeling  the  grisly  hand, 
Not  so  much  in  the  trunk  as  in  the  terrible  numbness 
Creeping  up  to  the  laurel  leaves  that  never  cease 
To  flourish  until  you  fall.     O  leaves  of  me 
Too  sere  for  coronal  wreaths,  and  fit  alone 
For  urns  of  memory,  treasured,  perhaps,  as  themes 
For  hearts  heroic,  fearless  singers  and  livers  — 
Delphic  Apollo ! 


271 


273 


[The  late  Mr.  Jonathan  Swift  Somers,  laureate  of 
Spoon  River  (see  page  128},  planned  The  Spooniad 
as  an  epic  in  twenty-four  books,  but  unfortunately 
did  not  live  to  complete  even  the  first  book.  The  frag- 
ment was  found  among  his  papers  by  William  Marion 
Reedy  and  was  for  the  first  time  published  in  Reedy 's 
Mirror  of  December  i8th,  1914.} 


274 


OF  John  Cabanis'  wrath  and  of  the  strife 

Of  hostile  parties,  and  his  dire  defeat 

Who  led  the  common  people  in  the  cause 

Of  freedom  for  Spoon  River,  and  the  fall 

Of  Rhodes'  bank  that  brought  unnumbered  woes 

And  loss  to  many,  with  engendered  hate 

That  flamed  into  the  torch  in  Anarch  hands 

To  burn  the  court-house,  on  whose  blackened  wreck 

A  fairer  temple  rose  and  Progress  stood  — 

Sing,  muse,  that  lit  the  Chian's  face  with  smiles, 

Who  saw  the  ant-like  Greeks  and  Trojans  crawl 

About  Scamander,  over  walls,  pursued 

Or  else  pursuing,  and  the  funeral  pyres 

And  sacred  hecatombs,  and  first  because 

Of  Helen  who  with  Paris  fled  to  Troy 

As  soul-mate ;   and  the  wrath  of  Peleus'  son, 

Decreed,  to  lose  Chryseis,  lovely  spoil 

Of  war,  and  dearest  concubine. 

Say  first, 

Thou  son  of  night,  called  Momus,  from  whose  eyes 
No  secret  hides,  and  Thalia,  smiling  one, 
What  bred  'twixt  Thomas  Rhodes  and  John  Cabanis 
275 


The  deadly  strife  ?     His  daughter  Flossie,  she, 
Returning  from  her  wandering  with  a  troop 
Of  strolling  players,  walked  the  village  streets, 
Her  bracelets  tinkling  and  with  sparkling  rings 
And  words  of  serpent  wisdom  and  a  smile 
Of  cunning  in  her  eyes.     Then  Thomas  Rhodes, 
Who  ruled  the  church  and  ruled  the  bank  as  well, 
Made  known  his  disapproval  of  the  maid ; 
And  all  Spoon  River  whispered  and  the  eyes 
Of  all  the  church  frowned  on  her,  till  she  knew 
They  feared  her  and  condemned. 

But  them  to  flout 

She  gave  a  dance  to  viols  and  to  flutes, 
Brought  from  Peoria,  and  many  youths, 
But  lately  made  regenerate  through  the  prayers 
Of  zealous  preachers  and  of  earnest  souls, 
Danced  merrily,  and  sought  her  in  the  dance, 
Who  wore  a  dress  so  low  of  neck  that  eyes 
Down  straying  might  survey  the  snowy  swale 
Till  it  was  lost  in  whiteness. 

With  the  dance 

The  village  changed  to  merriment  from  gloom. 
The  milliner,  Mrs.  Williams,  could  not  fill 
Her  orders  for  new  hats,  and  every  seamstress 
Plied  busy  needles  making  gowns ;   old  trunks 
And  chests  were  opened  for  their  store  of  laces 
And  rings  and  trinkets  were  brought  out  of  hiding 
And  all  the  youths  fastidious  grew  of  dress ; 

276 


Notes  passed,  and  many  a  fair  one's  door  at  eve 
Knew  a  bouquet,  and  strolling  lovers  thronged 
About  the  hills  that  overlooked  the  river. 
Then,  since  the  mercy  seats  more  empty  showed, 
One  of  God's  chosen  lifted  up  his  voice : 
"The  woman  of  Babylon  is  among  us;  rise, 
Ye  sons  of  light,  and  drive  the  wanton  forth !" 
So  John  Cabanis  left  the  church  and  left 
The  hosts  of  law  and  order  with  his  eyes 
By  anger  cleared,  and  him  the  liberal  cause 
Acclaimed  as  nominee  to  the  mayoralty 
To  vanquish  A.  D.  Blood. 

But  as  the  war 

Waged  bitterly  for  votes  and  rumors  flew 
About  the  bank,  and  of  the  heavy  loans 
Which  Rhodes'  son  had  made  to  prop  his  loss 
In  wheat,  and  many  drew  their  coin  and  left 
The  bank  of  Rhodes  more  hollow,  with  the  talk 
Among  the  liberals  of  another  bank 
Soon  to  be  chartered,  lo,  the  bubble  burst 
'Mid  cries  and  curses ;   but  the  liberals  laughed 
And  in  the  hall  of  Nicholas  Bindle  held 
Wise  converse  and  inspiriting  debate. 

High  on  a  stage  that  overlooked  the  chairs 
Where  dozens  sat,  and  where  a  pop-eyed  daub 
Of  Shakespeare,  very  like  the  hired  man 
Of  Christian  Dallmann,  brown  and  pointed  beard, 

277 


Upon  a  drab  proscenium  outward  stared, 

Sat  Harmon  Whitney,  to  that  eminence, 

By  merit  raised  in  ribaldry  and  guile, 

And  to  the  assembled  rebels  thus  he  spake : 

"Whether  to  lie  supine  and  let  a  clique 

Cold-blooded,  scheming,  hungry,  singing  psalms, 

Devour  our  substance,  wreck  our  banks  and  drain 

Our  little  hoards  for  hazards  on  the  price 

Of  wheat  or  pork,  or  yet  to  cower  beneath 

The  shadow  of  a  spire  upreared  to  curb 

A  breed  of  lackeys  and  to  serve  the  bank 

Coadjutor  in  greed,  that  is  the  question. 

Shall  we  have  music  and  the  jocund  dance, 

Or  tolling  bells  ?    Or  shall  young  romance  roam 

These  hills  about  the  river,  flowering  now 

To  April's  tears,  or  shall  they  sit  at  home, 

Or  play  croquet  where  Thomas  Rhodes  may  see, 

I  ask  you  ?     If  the  blood  of  youth  runs  o'er 

And  riots  'gainst  this  regimen  of  gloom, 

Shall  we  submit  to  have  these  youths  and  maids 

Branded  as  libertines  and  wantons  ?" 

Ere 

His  words  were  done  a  woman's  voice  called  "No !" 
Then  rose  a  sound  of  moving  chairs,  as  when 
The    numerous     swine    o'er-run     the     replenished 

troughs ; 

And  every  head  was  turned,  as  when  a  flock 
Of  geese  back-turning  to  the  hunter's  tread 

278 


Rise  up  with  flapping  wings ;   then  rang  the  hall 
With  riotous  laughter,  for  with  battered  hat 
Tilted  upon  her  saucy  head,  and  fist 
Raised  in  defiance,  Daisy  Fraser  stood. 
Headlong  she  had  been  hurled  from  out  the  hall 
Save  Wendell  Bloyd,  who  spoke  for  woman's  rights, 
Prevented,  and  the  bellowing  voice  of  Burchard. 
Then  'mid  applause  she  hastened  toward  the  stage 
And  flung  both  gold  and  silver  to  the  cause 
And  swiftly  left  the  hall. 

Meantime  upstood 
A  giant  figure,  bearded  like  the  son 
Of  Alcmene,  deep-chested,  round  of  paunch, 
And  spoke  in  thunder:   "Over  there  behold 
A  man  who  for  the  truth  withstood  his  wife  — 
Such  is  our  spirit  —  when  that  A.  D.  Blood 
Compelled  me  to  remove  Dom  Pedro  — " 

Quick 

Before  Jim  Brown  could  finish,  Jefferson  Howard 
Obtained  the  floor  and  spake:  "111  suits  the  time 
For  clownish  words,  and  trivial  is  our  cause 
If  naught's  at  stake  but  John  Cabanis'  wrath, 
He  who  was  erstwhile  of  the  other  side 
And  came  to  us  for  vengeance.     More's  at  stake 
Than  triumph  for  New  England  or  Virginia. 
And  whether  rum  be  sold,  or  for  two  years 
As  in  the  past  two  years,  this  town  be  dry 
Matters  but  little  —  Oh  yes,  revenue 
279 


For  sidewalks,  sewers;  that  is  well  enough! 
I  wish  to  God  this  fight  were  now  inspired 
By  other  passion  than  to  salve  the  pride 
Of  John  Cabanis  or  his  daughter.     Why 
Can  never  contests  of  great  moment  spring 
From  worthy  things,  not  little  ?     Still,  if  men 
Must  always  act  so,  and  if  rum  must  be 
The  symbol  and  the  medium  to  release 
From  life's  denial  and  from  slavery, 
Then  give  me  rum  !" 

Exultant  cries  arose. 

Then,  as  George  Trimble  had  o'ercome  his  fear 
And  vacillation  and  begun  to  speak, 
The  door  creaked  and  the  idiot,  Willie  Metcalf, 
Breathless  and  hatless,  whiter  than  a  sheet,  . 
Entered  and  cried  :   "The  marshal's  on  his  way 
To  arrest  you  all.     And  if  you  only  knew 
Who's  coming  here  to-morrow;   I  was  listening 
Beneath  the  window  where  the  other  side 
Are  making  plans." 

So  to  a  smaller  room 
To  hear  the  idiot's  secret  some  withdrew 
Selected  by  the  Chair;  the  Chair  himself 
And  Jefferson  Howard,  Benjamin  Pantier, 
And  Wendell  Bloyd,  George  Trimble,  Adam  Weir- 

auch, 

Imanuel  Ehrenhardt,  Seth  Compton,  Godwin  James 
And  Enoch  Dunlap,  Hiram  Scates,  Roy  Butler, 

280 


Carl  Hamblin,  Roger  Heston,  Ernest  Hyde 
And  Penniwit,  the  artist,  Kinsey  Keene, 
And  E.  C.  Culbertson  and  Franklin  Jones, 
Benjamin  Eraser,  son  of  Benjamin  Pantier 
By  Daisy  Eraser,  some  of  lesser  note, 
And  secretly  conferred. 

But  in  the  hall 

Disorder  reigned  and  when  the  marshal  came 
And  found  it  so,  he  marched  the  hoodlums  out 
And  locked  them  up. 

Meanwhile  within  a  room 

Back  in  the  basement  of  the  church,  with  Blood 
Counseled  the  wisest  heads.     Judge  Somers  first, 
Deep  learned  in  life,  and  next  him,  Elliott  Hawkins 
And  Lambert  Hutchins;   next  him  Thomas  Rhodes 
And  Editor  Whedon  ;   next  him  Garrison  Standard, 
A  traitor  to  the  liberals,  who  with  lip 
Upcurled  in  scorn  and  with  a  bitter  sneer : 
"Such  strife  about  an  insult  to  a  woman  — 
A  girl  of  eighteen"  —  Christian  Dallmann  too, 
And  others  unrecorded.     Some  there  were 
Who  frowned  not  on  the  cup  but  loathed  the  rule 
Democracy  achieved  thereby,  the  freedom 
And  lust  of  life  it  symbolized. 

Now  morn  with  snowy  fingers  up  the  sky 

Flung  like  an  orange  at  a  festival 

The  ruddy  sun,  when  from  their  hasty  beds 

281 


Poured  forth  the  hostile  forces,  and  the  streets 
Resounded  to  the  rattle  of  the  wheels, 
That  drove  this  way  and  that  to  gather  in 
The  tardy  voters,  and  the  cries  of  chieftains 
Who  manned  the  battle.     But  at  ten  o'clock 
The  liberals  bellowed  fraud,  and  at  the  polls 
The  rival  candidates  growled  and  came  to  blows. 
Then  proved  the  idiot's  tale  of  yester-eve 
A  word  of  warning.     Suddenly  on  the  streets 
Walked  hog-eyed  Allen,  terror  of  the  hills 
That  looked  on  Bernadotte  ten  miles  removed. 
No  man  of  this  degenerate  day  could  lift 
The  boulders  which  he  threw,  and  when  he  spoke 
The  windows  rattled,  and  beneath  his  brows, 
Thatched  like  a  shed  with  bristling  hair  of  black, 
His  small  eyes  glistened  like  a  maddened  boar. 
And  as  he  walked  the  boards  creaked,  as  he  walked 
A  song  of  menace  rumbled.     Thus  he  came, 
The  champion  of  A.  D.  Blood,  commissioned 
To  terrify  the  liberals.     Many  fled 
As  when  a  hawk  soars  o'er  the  chicken  yard. 
He  passed  the  polls  and  with  a  playful  hand 
Touched  Brown,  the  giant,  and  he  fell  against, 
As  though  he  were  a  child,  the  wall ;   so  strong 
Was  hog-eyed  Allen.     But  the  liberals  smiled. 
For  soon  as  hog-eyed  Allen  reached  the  walk, 
Close  on  his  steps  paced  Bengal  Mike,  brought  in 
By  Kinsey  Keene,  the  subtle-witted  one, 

282 


To  match  the  hog-eyed  Allen.     He  was  scarce 
Three-fourths  the  other's  bulk,  but  steel  his  arms, 
And  with  a  tiger's  heart.     Two  men  he  killed 
And  many  wounded  in  the  days  before, 
And  no  one  feared. 

But  when  the  hog-eyed  one 
Saw  Bengal  Mike  his  countenance  grew  dark, 
The  bristles  o'er  his  red  eyes  twitched  with  rage, 
The  song  he  rumbled  lowered.     Round  and  round 
The  court-house  paced  he,  followed  stealthily 
By  Bengal  Mike,  who  jeered  him  every  step  : 
"Come,  elephant,  and  fight!     Come,  hog-eyed  cow- 
ard! 

Come,  face  about  and  fight  me,  lumbering  sneak ! 
Come,  beefy  bully,  hit  me,  if  you  can  ! 
Take  out  your  gun,  you  duffer,  give  me  reason 
To  draw  and  kill  you.     Take  your  billy  out ; 
I'll  crack  your  boar's  head  with  a  piece  of  brick!" 
But  never  a  word  the  hog-eyed  one  returned, 
But  trod  about  the  court-house,  followed  both 
By  troops  of  boys  and  watched  by  all  the  men. 
All  day,  they  walked  the  square.     But  when  Apollo 
Stood  with  reluctant  look  above  the  hills 
As  fain  to  see  the  end,  and  all  the  votes 
Were  cast,  and  closed  the  polls,  before  the  door 
Of  Trainer's  drug  store  Bengal  Mike,  in  tones 
That  echoed  through  the  village,  bawled  the  taunt : 
"Who  was  your  mother,  hog-eyed  ?"     In  a  trice, 
283 


As  when  a  wild  boar  turns  upon  the  hound 
That  through  the  brakes  upon  an  August  day 
Has  gashed  him  with  its  teeth,  the  hog-eyed  one 
Rushed  with  his  giant  arms  on  Bengal  Mike 
And   grabbed   him   by  the  throat.     Then   rose   to 

heaven 

The  frightened  cries  of  boys,  and  yells  of  men 
Forth  rushing  to  the  street.     And  Bengal  Mike 
Moved  this  way  and  now  that,  drew  in  his  head 
As  if  his  neck  to  shorten,  and  bent  down 
To  break  the  death  grip  of  the  hog-eyed  one ; 
'Twixt  guttural  wrath  and  fast-expiring  strength 
Striking  his  fists  against  the  invulnerable  chest 
Of  hog-eyed  Allen.     Then,  when  some  came  in 
To  part  them,  others  stayed  them,  and  the  fight 
Spread  among  dozens ;  many  valiant  souls 
Went  down  from  clubs  and  bricks. 

But  tell  me,  Muse, 

What  god  or  goddess  rescued  Bengal  Mike  ? 
With  one  last,  mighty  struggle  did  he  grasp 
The  murderous  hands  and  turning  kick  his  foe. 
Then,  as  if  struck  by  lightning,  vanished  all 
The  strength  from  hog-eyed  Allen,  at  his  side 
Sank  limp  those  giant  arms  and  o'er  his  face 
Dread  pallor  and  the  sweat  of  anguish  spread. 
And  those  great  knees,  invincible  but  late, 
Shook  to  his  weight.     And  quickly  as  the  lion 
Leaps  on  its  wounded  prey,  did  Bengal  Mike 

'     284 


Smite  with  a  rock  the  temple  of  his  foe, 
And  down  he  sank  and  darkness  o'er  his  eyes 
Passed  like  a  cloud. 

As  when  the  woodman  fells 
Some  giant  oak  upon  a  summer's  day 
And  all  the  songsters  of  the  forest  shrill, 
And  one  great  hawk  that  has  his  nestling  young 
Amid  the  topmost  branches  croaks,  as  crash 
The  leafy  branches  through  the  tangled  boughs 
Of  brother  oaks,  so  fell  the  hog-eyed  one 
Amid  the  lamentations  of  the  friends 
Of  A.  D.  Blood. 

Just  then,  four  lusty  men 
Bore  the  town  marshal,  on  whose  iron  face 
The  purple  pall  of  death  already  lay, 
To  Trainor's  drug  store,  shot  by  Jack  McGuire. 
And  cries  went  up  of  "Lynch  him !"  and  the  sound 
Of  running  feet  from  every  side  was  heard 
Bent  on  the 


285 


(Epilogue 


287 


epilogue 

(THE  GRAVEYARD  OF  SPOON  RIVER.  TWO  VOICES 
ARE  HEARD  BEHIND  A  SCREEN  DECORATED  WITH 
DIABOLICAL  AND  ANGELIC  FIGURES  IN  VARIOUS 
ALLEGORICAL  RELATIONS.  A  FAINT  LIGHT  SHOWS 
DIMLY  THROUGH  THE  SCREEN  AS  IF  IT  WERE 
WOVEN  OF  LEAVES,  BRANCHES  AND  SHADOWS.) 

FIRST  VOICE 
A  game  of  checkers  ? 

SECOND    VOICE 

Well,  I  don't  mind. 

FIRST   VOICE 

I  move  the  Will. 

SECOND    VOICE 

You're  playing  it  blind. 

FIRST   VOICE 

Then  here's  the  Soul. 

SECOND    VOICE 

Checked  by  the  Will. 
289 


FIRST   VOICE 

Eternal  Good ! 

SECOND    VOICE 

And  Eternal  111. 

FIRST   VOICE 

I  haste  for  the  King  row. 

SECOND   VOICE 

Save  your  breath. 

FIRST   VOICE 

I  was  moving  Life. 

SECOND   VOICE 

You're  checked  by  Death. 

FIRST   VOICE 

Very  good,  here's  Moses. 

SECOND   VOICE 

And  here's  the  Jew. 

FIRST  VOICE 

My  next  move  is  Jesus. 

SECOND   VOICE 

St.  Paul  for  you ! 

FIRST   VOICE 

Yes,  but  St.  Peter  — 

SECOND    VOICE 

You  might  have  foreseen  — 
290 


FIRST   VOICE 

You're  in  the  King  row  — 

SECOND    VOICE 

With  Constantine ! 

FIRST   VOICE 

Pll  go  back  to  Athens. 

SECOND    VOICE 

Well,  here's  the  Persian. 

FIRST   VOICE 

All  right,  the  Bible. 

SECOND   VOICE 

Pray  now,  what  version  ? 

FIRST   VOICE 

I  take  up  Buddha. 

SECOND   VOICE 

It  never  will  work. 

FIRST   VOICE 

From  the  corner  Mahomet. 

SECOND    VOICE 

I  move  the  Turk. 

FIRST   VOICE 

The  game  is  tangled ;  where  are  we  now  ? 

SECOND    VOICE 

You're  dreaming  worlds.     Pm  in  the  King  row. 

Move  as  you  will,  if  I  can't  wreck  you 

Pll  thwart  you,  harry  you,  rout  you,  check  you. 

291 


FIRST    VOICE 

I'm  tired.     I'll  send  for  my  Son  to  play. 
I  think  he  can  beat  you  finally  — 

SECOND    VOICE 

Eh? 

FIRST   VOICE 

I  must  preside  at  the  stars'  convention. 

SECOND   VOICE 

Very  well,  my  lord,  but  I  beg  to  mention 
I'll  give  this  game  my  direct  attention. 

FIRST  VOICE 
A  game  indeed  !     But  Truth  is  my  quest. 

SECOND    VOICE 

Beaten,  you  walk  away  with  a  jest. 

I  strike  the  table,  I  scatter  the  checkers. 

(A  rattle  of  a  falling  table  and  checkers  flying  over  a 
floor.} 

Aha  !  You  armies  and  iron  deckers, 

Races  and  states  in  a  cataclysm  — 

Now  for  a  day  of  atheism  ! 

(The  screen  vanishes  and  BEELZEBUB  steps  forward 
carrying  a  trumpet,  which  he  blows  faintly.  Im- 
mediately LOKI  and  YOGARINDRA  start  up  from 
the  shadows  of  night.} 

BEELZEBUB 

Good  evening,  Loki ! 

292 


LOKI 

The  same  to  you ! 

BEELZEBUB 

And  Yogarindra ! 

YOGARINDRA 

My  greetings,  too. 

LOKI 
Whence  came  you,  comrade  ? 

BEELZEBUB 

From  yonder  screen. 

YOGARINDRA 

And  what  were  you  doing  ? 

BEELZEBUB 

Stirring  His  spleen. 

LOKI 
How  did  you  do  it  ? 

BEELZEBUB 

I  made  it  rough 
In  a  game  of  checkers. 

LOKI 
Good  enough  1 

YOGARINDRA 

I  thought  I  heard  the  sounds  of  a  battle. 
293 


BEELZEBUB 

No  doubt !     I  made  the  checkers  rattle, 
Turning  the  table  over  and  strewing 
The  bits  of  wood  like  an  army  pursuing. 

YOGARINDRA 

I  have  a  game !    Let  us  make  a  man. 

LOKI 
My  net  is  waiting  him,  if  you  can. 

YOGARINDRA 

And  here's  my  mirror  to  fool  him  with  — 

BEELZEBUB 

Mystery,  falsehood,  creed  and  myth. 

LOKI 
But  no  one  can  mold  him,  friend,  but  you. 

BEELZEBUB 

Then  to  the  sport  without  more  ado. 

YOGARINDRA 

Hurry  the  work  ere  it  grow  to  day. 

BEELZEBUB 

I  set  me  to  it.     Where  is  the  clay  ? 
(He  scrapes  the  earth  with  his  hands  and  begins  to 
model.) 

294 


BEELZEBUB 

Out  of  the  dust, 

Out  of  the  slime, 

A  little  rust, 

And  a  little  lime. 

Muscle  and  gristle, 

Mucin,  stone 

Brayed  with  a  pestle, 

Fat  and  bone. 

Out  of  the  marshes, 

Out  of  the  vaults, 

Matter  crushes 

Gas  and  salts. 

What  is  this  you  call  a  mind, 

Flitting,  drifting,  pale  and  blind, 

Soul  of  the  swamp  that  rides  the  wind  ? 

Jack-o'-lantern,  here  you  are ! 
Dream  of  heaven,  pine  for  a  star, 
Chase  your  brothers  to  and  fro, 
Back  to  the  swamp  at  last  you'll  go. 
Hilloo!    Hilloo! 

THE    VALLEY 

Hilloo!  Hilloo! 

(Beelzebub  in  scraping  up  the  earth  turns  out  a  skull.) 

BEELZEBUB 

Old  one,  old  one. 
Now  ere  I  break  you 
295 


Crush  you  and  make  you 
Clay  for  my  use, 
Let  me  observe  you  : 
You  were  a  bold  one 
Flat  at  the  dome  of  you, 
Heavy  the  base  of  you, 
False  to  the  home  of  you, 
Strong  was  the  face  of  you, 
Strange  to  all  fears. 
Yet  did  the  hair  of  you 
Hide  what  you  were. 
Now  to  re-nerve  you  — 
(He  crushes  the  skull  between  his  hands  and  mixes 

it  with  the  clay.} 
Now  you  are  dust, 
Limestone  and  rust. 
I  mold  and  I  stir 
And  make  you  again. 

THE    VALLEY 

Again  ?     Again  ? 

(In  the  same  manner  BEELZEBUB  has  fashioned  several 
figures,  standing  them  against  the  trees.} 

LOKI 

Now  for  the  breath  of  life.     As  I  remember 
You  have  done  right  to  mold  your  creatures  first, 
And  stand  them  up. 

296 


BEELZEBUB 

From  gravitation 
I  make  the  will. 

YOGARINDRA 

Out  of  sensation 
Comes  his  ill. 
Out  of  my  mirror 
Springs  his  error. 
Who  was  so  cruel 
To  make  him  the  slave 
Of  me  the  sorceress,  you  the  knave, 
And  you  the  plotter  to  catch  his  thought, 
Whatever  he  did,  whatever  he  sought  ? 
With  a  nature  dual 
Of  will  and  mind, 

A  thing  that  sees,  and  a  thing  that's  blind. 
Come  !  to  our  dance  !     Something  hated  him 
Made  us  over  him,  therefore  fated  him. 
(  They  join  hands  and  dance.) 

LOKI 

Passion,  reason,  custom,  ruels, 

Creeds  of  the  churches,  lore  of  the  schools, 

Taint  in  the  blood  and  strength  of  soul. 

Flesh  too  weak  for  the  will's  control ; 

Poverty,  riches,  pride  of  birth, 

Wailing,  laughter,  over  the  earth, 

Here  I  have  you  caught  again, 

Enter  my  web,  ye  sons  of  men. 

297 


YOGARINDRA 

Isn't  it  real  ? 
What  do  you  think  now,  what  do  you  feel  ? 
Here  is  treasure  of  gold  heaped  up ; 
Here  is  wine  in  the  festal  cup. 
Tendrils  blossoming,  turned  to  whips, 
Love  with  her  breasts  and  scarlet  lips. 
Breathe  in  their  nostrils. 

BEELZEBUB 

Falsehood's  breath, 
Out  of  nothingness  into  death. 
Out  of  the  mold,  out  of  the  rocks, 
Wonder,  mockery,  paradox ! 
Soaring  spirit,  groveling  flesh, 
Bait  the  trap,  and  spread  the  mesh. 
Give  him  hunger,  lure  him  with  truth, 
Give  him  the  iris  hopes  of  Youth. 
Starve  him,  shame  him,  fling  him  down, 
Whirled  in  the  vortex  of  the  town. 
Break  him,  age  him,  till  he  curse 
The  idiot  face  of  the  universe. 
Over  and  over  we  mix  the  clay,  — 
What  was  dust  is  alive  to-day. 

THE    THREE 

Thus  is  the  hell-born  tangle  wound 
Swiftly,  swiftly  round  and  round. 

298 


BEELZEBUB 

(Waving  his  trumpet.) 
You  live !    Away ! 

ONE    OF   THE    FIGURES 

How  strange  and  new  J 
I  am  I,  and  another,  too. 

ANOTHER   FIGURE 

I  was  a  sun-dew's  leaf,  but  now 
What  is  this  longing  ?  — 

ANOTHER   FIGURE 

Earth  below 

I  was  a  seedling  magnet-tipped 
Drawn  down  earth  — 

ANOTHER  FIGURE 

And  I  was  gripped 
Electrons  in  a  granite  stone, 
Now  I  think. 

ANOTHER   FIGURE 

Oh,  how  alone ! 

ANOTHER   FIGURE 

My  lips  to  thine.     Through  thee  I  find 
Something  alone  by  love  divined  ! 
299 


BEELZEBUB 

Begone !     No,  wait.     I  have  bethought  me,  friends ; 
Let's  give  a  play. 

(He  waves  his  trumpet.} 

To  yonder  green  rooms  go. 

(The  figures  disappear.} 

YOGARINDRA 

Oh,  yes,  a  play !     That's  very  well,  I  think, 
But  who  will  be  the  audience  ?     I  must  throw 
Illusion  over  all.  LOKI 

And  I  must  shift 
The  scenery,  and  tangle  up  the  plot. 

BEELZEBUB 

Well,  so  you  shall !     Our  audience  shall  come 
From  yonder  graves. 

(He  blows  his  trumpet  slightly  louder  than  before.  The 
scene  changes.  A  stage  arises  among  the  graves. 
The  curtain  is  down,  concealing  the  creatures  just 
created,  illuminated  halfway  up  by  spectral  lights. 
BEELZEBUB  stands  before  the  curtain.} 

BEELZEBUB 

(A  terrific  blast  of  the  trumpet.} 
Who-o-o-o-o-o ! 

(Immediately  there  is  a  rustling  as  of  the  shells  of 
grasshoppers  stirred  by  a  wind;  and  hundreds 
of  the  dead,  including  those  who  have  appeared 
in  the  Anthology,  hurry  to  the  sound  of  the  trumpet.} 

300 


A    VOICE 

Gabriel !     Gabriel ! 

MANY   VOICES 

The  Judgment  day ! 

BEELZEBUB 

Be  quiet,  if  you  please 
At  least  until  the  stars  fall  and  the  moon. 

MANY   VOICES 

Save  us  !     Save  us  ! 

(Beelzebub  extends  his  hands  over  the  audience  with 
a  benedictory  motion  and  restores  order.) 

BEELZEBUB 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  your  kind  attention 

To  my  interpretation  of  the  scene. 

I  rise  to  give  your  fancy  comprehension, 

And  analyze  the  parts  of  the  machine. 

My  mood  is  such  that  I  would  not  deceive  you, 

Though  still  a  liar  and  the  father  of  it, 

From  judgment's  frailty  I  would  retrieve  you, 

Though  falsehood  is  my  art  and  though  I  love  it. 

Down  in  the  habitations  whence  I  rise, 

The  roots  of  human  sorrow  boundless  spread. 

Long  have  I  watched  them  draw  the  strength  that  lies 

In  clay  made  richer  by  the  rotting  dead. 

Here  is  a  blossom,  here  a  twisted  stalk, 

Here  fruit  that  sourly  withers  ere  its  prime ; 

And  here  a  growth  that  sprawls  across  the  walk, 

301 


Food  for  the  green  worm,  which  it  turns  to  slime. 
The  ruddy  apple  with  a  core  of  cork 
Springs  from  a  root  which  in  a  hollow  dangles, 
Not  skillful  husbandry  nor  laborious  work 
Can  save  the  tree  which  lightning  breaks  and  tangles. 
Why  does  the  bright  nasturtium  scarcely  flower 
But  that  those  insects  multiply  and  grow, 
Which  make  it  food,  and  in  the  very  hour 
In  which  the  veined  leaves  and  blossoms  blow  ? 
Why  does  a  goodly  tree,  while  fast  maturing, 
Turn  crooked  branches  covered  o'er  with  scale  ? 
Why  does  the  tree  whose  youth  was  not  assuring 
Prosper  and  bear  while  all  its  fellows  fail  ? 
I  under  earth  see  much.     I  know  the  soil. 
I  know  where  mold  is  heavy  and  where  thin. 
I  see  the  stones  that  thwart  the  plowman's  toil, 
The  crooked  roots  of  what  the  priests  call  sin. 
I  know  all  secrets,  even  to  the  core, 
What  seedlings  will  be  upas,  pine  or  laurel ; 
It  cannot  change  howe'er  the  field's  worked  o'er. 
Man's  what  he  is  and  that's  the  devil's  moral. 
So  with  the  souls  of  the  ensuing  drama 
They  sprang  from  certain  seed  in  certain  earth. 
Behold  them  in  the  devil's  cyclorama, 
Shown  in  their  proper  light  for  all  they're  worth. 
Now  to  my  task :  I'll  give  an  exhibition 
Of  mixing  the  ingredients  of  spirit. 
(He  waves  his  hand.) 

302 


Come,  crucible,  perform  your  magic  mission, 

Come,  recreative  fire,  and  hover  near  it ! 

I'll  make  a  soul,  or  show  how  one  is  made. 

(He    waves    his    wand   again.     Parti-colored  flames 

appear.} 
This  is  the  woman  you  shall  see  anon ! 

(A  red  flame  appears.} 

This  hectic  flame  makes  all  the  world  afraid : 
It  was  a  soldier's  scourge  which  ate  the  bone. 
His  daughter  bore  the  lady  of  the  action, 
And  died  at  thirty-nine  of  scrofula. 
She  was  a  creature  of  a  sweet  attraction, 
Whose  sex-obsession  no  one  ever  saw. 

(A  purple  flame  appears.} 
Lo !   this  denotes  aristocratic  strains 
Back  in  the  centuries  of  France's  glory. 

(A  blue  flame  appears.} 

And  this  the  will  that  pulls  against  the  chains 
Her  father  strove  until  his  hair  was  hoary. 
Sorrow  and  failure  made  his  nature  cold, 
He  never  loved  the  child  whose  woe  is  shown, 
And  hence  her  passion  for  the  things  which  gold 
Brings  in  this  world  of  pride,  and  brings  alone. 
The  human  heart  that's  famished  from  its  birth 
Turns  to  the  grosser  treasures,  that  is  plain. 
Thus  aspiration  fallen  fills  the  earth 
With  jungle  growths  of  bitterness  and  pain. 
Of  Celtic,  Gallic  fire  our  heroine  ! 
303 


Courageous,  cruel,  passionate  and  proud. 

False,  vengeful,  cunning,  without  fear  o'  sin. 

A  head  that  oft  is  bloody,  but  not  bowed. 

Now  if  she  meet  a  man  —  suppose  our  hero, 

With  whom  her  chemistry  shall  war  yet  mix, 

As  if  she  were  her  Borgia  to  his  Nero, 

'Twill  look  like  one  of  Satan's  little  tricks  ! 

However,  it  must  be.     The  world's  great  garden 

Is  not  all  mine.     I  only  sow  the  tares. 

Wheat  should  be  made  immune,  or  else  the  Warden 

Should  stop  their  coming  in  the  world's  affairs. 

But  to  our  hero  !     Long  ere  he  was  born 

I  knew  what  would  repel  him  and  attract. 

Such  spirit  mathematics,  fig  or  thorn, 

I  can  prognosticate  before  the  fact. 

(A  yellow  flame  appears.} 
This  is  a  grandsire's  treason  in  an  orchard 
Against  a  maid  whose  nature  with  his  mated. 

(Lurid  flames  appear.} 

And  this  his  memory  distrait  and  tortured, 
Which    marked   the   child   with   hate   because   she 

hated. 
Our  heroine's  grand   dame  was  that   maid's   own 

cousin  — 

But  never  this  our  man  and  woman  knew. 
The  child,  in  time,  of  lovers  had  a  dozen, 
Then  wed  a  gentleman  upright  and  true. 
And  thus  our  hero  had  a  double  nature : 

3°4 


One  half  of  him  was  bad,  the  other  good. 

The  devil  must  exhaust  his  nomenclature 

To  make  this  puzzle  rightly  understood. 

But  when  our  hero  and  our  heroine  met 

They  were  at  once  attracted,  the  repulsion 

Was  hidden  under  Passion,  with  her  net 

Which  must  enmesh  you  ere  you  feel  revulsion. 

The  virus  coursing  in  the  soldier's  blood, 

The  orchard's  ghost,  the  unknown  kinship  'twixt 

them, 

Our  hero's  mother's  lovers  round  them  stood, 
Shadows  that  smiled  to  see  how  Fate  had  fixed  them. 
This  twain  pledge  vows  and  marry,  that's  the  play. 
And  then  the  tragic  features  rise  and  deepen. 
He  is  a  tender  husband.     When  away 
The  serpents  from  the  orchard  slyly  creep  in. 
Our  heroine,  born  of  spirit  none  too  loyal, 
Picks  fruit  of  knowledge  —  leaves  the  tree  of  life. 
Her  fancy  turns  to  France  corrupt  and  royal, 
Soon  she  forgets  her  duty  as  a  wife. 
You  know  the  rest,  so  far  as  that's  concerned, 
She  met  exposure  and  her  husband  slew  her. 
He  lost  his  reason,  for  the  love  she  spurned. 
He  prized  her  as  his  own  —  how  slight  he  knew  her. 
(He  waves  a  wand,  showing  a  man  in  a  prison  cell.) 
Now  here  he  sits  condemned  to  mount  the  gallows  — 
He  could  not  tell  his  story  —  he  is  dumb. 
Love,  says  your  poets,  is  a  grace  that  hallows, 
305 


I  call  it  suffering  and  martyrdom. 

The  judge  with  pointed  finger  says,  "You  killed 

her." 

Well,  so  he  did  —  but  here's  the  explanation ; 
He  could  not  give  it.     I,  the  drama-builder, 
Show  you  the  various  truths  and  their  relation. 

(He  waves  his  wand.*) 

Now,  to  begin.     The  curtain  is  ascending, 
They  meet  at  tea  upon  a  flowery  lawn. 
Fair,  is  it  not  ?    How  sweet  their  souls  are  blending  — 
The  author  calls  the  play  "Laocoon." 

A  VOICE 
Only  an  earth  dream. 

ANOTHER   VOICE 

With  which  we  are  done. 
A  flash  of  a  comet 
Upon  the  earth  stream. 

ANOTHER   VOICE 

A  dream  twice  removed, 
A  spectral  confusion 
Of  earth's  dread  illusion. 

A   FAR   VOICE 

These  are  the  ghosts 
From  the  desolate  coasts. 
Would  you  go  to  them  ? 
Only  pursue  them. 
Whatever  enshrined  is 

306 


Within  you  is  you. 

In  a  place  where  no  wind  is, 

Out  of  the  damps, 

Be  ye  as  lamps. 

Flame-like  aspire, 

To  me  alone  true, 

The  Life  and  the  Fire. 

(BEELZEBUB,  LOKI  and  YOGARINDRA  vanish.  The 
phantasmagoria  fades  out.  Where  the  dead 
seemed  to  have  assembled,  only  heaps  of  leaves 
appear.  There  is  the  light  as  of  dawn.  Voices 
of  Spring.) 

FIRST  VOICE 

The  springtime  is  come,  the  winter  departed, 
She  wakens  from  slumber  and  dances  light-hearted. 

The  sun  is  returning, 

We  are  done  with  alarms, 

Earth  lifts  her  face  burning, 

Held  close  in  his  arms. 

The  sun  is  an  eagle 

Who  broods  o'er  his  young, 

The  earth  is  his  nursling 

In  whom  he  has  flung 

The  life-flame  in  seed, 

In  blossom  desire, 

Till  fire  become  life, 

And  life  become  fire. 
307 


SECOND    VOICE 

I  slip  and  I  vanish, 

I  baffle  your  eye ; 

I  dive  and  I  climb, 

I  change  and  I  fly. 

You  have  me,  you  lose  me, 

Who  have  me  too  well, 

Now  find  me  and  use  me  — 

I  am  here  in  a  cell. 

THIRD  VOICE 
You  are  there  in  a  cell  ? 
Oh,  now  for  a  rod 
With  which  to  divine  you  — 

SECOND    VOICE 

Nay,  child,  I  am  God. 

FOURTH    VOICE 

When  the  waking  waters  rise  from  their  beds  of  snow, 

under  the  hill, 
In  little  rooms  of  stone  where  they  sleep  when  icicles 

reign, 
The  April  breezes  scurry  through  woodlands,  saying 

"Fulfill! 
Awaken  roots  under  cover  of  soil  —  it   is    Spring 

again." 

Then  the  sun  exults,  the  moon  is  at  peace,  and  voices 
Call  to  the  silver  shadows  to  lift  the  flowers  from 
their  dreams. 

308 


And  a  longing,  longing  enters  my  heart  of  sorrow, 

my  heart  that  rejoices 
In  the  fleeting  glimpse  of  a  shining  face,  and  her  hair 

that  gleams. 

I  arise  and  follow  alone  for  hours  the  winding  way 

by  the  river, 
Hunting  a  vanishing  light,  and  a  solace  for  joy  too 

deep. 

Where  do  you  lead  me,  wild  one,  on  and  on  forever  ? 
Over  the  hill,  over  the  hill,  and  down  to  the  meadows 

of  sleep. 

THE    SUN 

Over  the  soundless  depths  of  space  for  a  hundred 

million  miles 
Speeds  the  soul  of  me,  silent  thunder,  struck  from 

a  harp  of  fire. 
Before  my  eyes  the  planets  wheel  and  a  universe 

defiles, 
I  but  a  luminant  speck  of  dust  upborne  in  a  vast 

desire. 

What  is  my  universe  that  obeys  me  —  myself  com- 
pelled to  obey 

A  power  that  holds  me  and  whirls  me  over  a  path 
that  has  no  end  ? 

And  there  are  my  children  who  call  me  great,  the 
giver  of  life  and  day, 

Myself  a  child  who  cry  for  life  and  know  not  whither 
I  tend. 

309 


A  million  million  suns  above  me,  as  if  the  curtain 

of  night 
Were    hung    before    creation's    flame,    that    shone 

through  the  weave  of  the  cloth, 
Each  with  its  worlds  and  worlds  and  worlds  crying 

upward  for  light, 
For  each  is  drawn  in  its  course  to  what  ?  —  as  the 

candle  draws  the  moth. 

THE    MILKY   WAY 

Orbits  unending, 
Life  never  ending, 
Power  without  end. 

A  VOICE 

Wouldst  thou  be  lord, 
Not  peace  but  a  sword. 
Not  heart's  desire  — 
Ever  aspire. 
Worship  thy  power, 
Conquer  thy  hour, 
Sleep  not  but  strive, 
So  shalt  thou  live. 

INFINITE    DEPTHS 
Infinite  Law, 
Infinite  Life. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 

310 


IHPHE  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of  a 
few  of  the  Macmillan  books  on  kindred  subjects 


PRESS  COMMENTS  ON  "SPOON  RIVER  ANTHOLOGY" 

"  The  first  successful  novel  in  verse  we  have 
had  in  American  literature  ...  it  more  vividly 
paints  a  community  than  any  other  work  in 
prose  or  verse  in  American  literature  ...  it  at 
once  takes  its  place  among  those  masterpieces 
which  are  not  for  a  time  or  a  locality." 

—  Boston  Transcript. 

"  Once  possessing  the  book,  one  is  unwilling 
to  part  with  it.     It  is  too  notable  a  piece  of 
American  literature  to  omit  from  one's  library." 
—  Chicago  Tribune. 

"An  interesting  and  remarkable  work." 

—  New  York  Post. 

"A  wonderfully  vivid  series  of  transcripts 
from  real  life."  —  Current  Opinion. 

"  A  big  book  and  deserves  all  the  success  it  is 
having."  —  Los  Angeles  Graphic. 

"  One  of  the  most  remarkable  of  recent  pub- 
lications from  the  point  of  view  of  originality 
.  .  .  the  work  is  striking." 

—  Springfield  Republican. 

"  It  is  a  book  which,  whether  one  likes  it  or 
not,  one  must  respect."  —  New  Republic. 

"The  natural  child  of  Walt  Whitman  .  .  . 
the  only  poet  with  true  Americanism  in  his 
bones." 

— John  Cowper  Powys  in  New  York  Times. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


Songs  and  Satires 

Cloth,  i2mot 

Leather,  $1.6  o 

No  book  in  recent  years  has  made  the  sensation  in  poetry 
circles  that  followed  the  appearance  of  Edgar  Lee  Masters's 
"Spoon  River  Anthology."  It  made  Mr.  Masters  the  most 
widely  discussed  writer  in  America;  it  has  been  called  the 
most  important  contribution  to  letters  of  recent  years. 

In  this  new  collection  "  Songs  and  Satires  "  Mr.  Masters  has 
evidenced  the  same  qualities  of  insight,  sympathy,  and  origi- 
nality which  readers  find  in  "  Spoon  River  Anthology." 


"The  Natural  Child  of  Walt  Whitman,  the  only  poet  with 
true  Americanism  in  his  bones."  —  New  York  Times. 

"  Places  him  in  the  unique  position  of  having  a  special  vision 
and  a  singularly  compelling  method  of  embodying  it  among 
American  poets  of  today."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  A  wonderful  book  .  .  .  true  poetry  in  every  sense  of  which 
Mr.  Masters  does  not  lack  mastery."  —  Argonaut. 

"There  is  an  inescapable  beauty  in  their  quality  of  uncom- 
promising truth.  They  are  poetry  indisputably.  They  sing 
with  a  grave  music."  —  Reedy*  s  Mirror  (St.  Louis). 


THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

The  Great  Valley 

BY  EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 


Cloth,  $1.50  Leather,  $1.75 

This  book  by  the  author  of  "Spoon  River 
Anthology  "  represents  Mr.  Masters's  very  latest 
work,  and  while  it  employs  the  style  and  method 
of  its  now  famous  predecessor  it  marks  an  ad- 
vance over  that  both  in  treatment  and  thought. 
Here  Mr.  Masters  is  interpreting  the  country 
and  the  age.  Many  problems  are  touched  upon 
with  typical  Masters  incisiveness.  Many  char- 
acters are  introduced,  each  set  off  with  that 
penetrative  insight  into  human  nature  that  so 
distinguished  the  Anthology.  The  result  is  an 
epic  of  American  life,  a  worthy  successor  to 
Mr.  Masters's  first  volume. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publisher!  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  Hew  York 


Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts 

BY  AMY  LOWELL 

Third  Edition,  doth,  I2mo,  $1.25 
Leather,  ismo,  $1.75 

"...  In  the  poem  which  gave  its  name  to  a  previous  volume,  '  Sword 
Blades  and  Poppy  Seed,'  Miss  Lowell  uttered  her  Credo  with  rare  sin- 
cerity and  passion.  Not  since  Elizabeth  Barrett's  '  Vision  of  Poets  '  has 
there  been  such  a  confession  of  faith  in  the  mission  of  poetry,  such  a 
stern  compulsion  of  dedication  laid  upon  the  poet.  And  in  her  latest 
work  we  find  proof  that  she  has  lived  according  to  her  confession  and 
her  dedication  with  a  singleness  of  purpose  seldom  encountered  in  our 
fluid  time. 

"  '  Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts  '  is  a  book  greatly  and  strenuously 
imagined.  .  .  .  Miss  Lowell  is  a  great  romantic.  .  .  .  She  belongs  to 
the  few  who,  in  every  generation,  feel  that  poetry  is  a  high  calling,  and 
who  press  undeviatingly  toward  the  mark.  They  are  few,  and  they  are 
frequently  lonely,  but  they  lead."  —  New  York  Times  Book  Review. 

"  .  .  .  '  The  Hammers  '  is  a  really  thrilling  piece  of  work  ;  the  skill 
with  which  it  is  divided  into  different  moods  and  motifs  is  something 
more  than  a  tour  de  force.  The  way  the  different  hammers  are  charac- 
terized and  given  voice,  the  varying  music  wrung  from  them  (from  the 
ponderous  banging  of  the  hammers  at  the  building  of  the  *  Bellerophon  ' 
to  their  light  tapping  as  they  pick  off  the  letters  of  Napoleon's  victories 
on  the  arch  of  the  Place  du  Carrousel)  ,  the  emphasis  with  which  they 
reveal  a  whole  period  —  these  are  the  things  one  sees  rarely."  —  Louis 
UNTERMKYER  in  the  Chicago  Evening  Post. 


in  this  book,  '  Patterns,'  is  a  brilliant,  aesthetic  achievement  in  a  com- 
bination of  story,  imagism,  and  symbolism.  '  Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts  ' 
is  a  volume  that  contains  beautiful  poetry  for  all  readers  who  have  the 
root  of  the  matter  in  them."  —  Reedy  's  Mirror,  St.  Louis. 


"The  most  original  of  all  the  young  American  writers  of  to-day." 
The  New  Age,  London. 

"  Brilliant  is  the  term  for  '  Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts  '  —  praise  which 
holds  good  when  the  book  is  put  to  the  test  of  a  third  reading."  —  ED- 
WARD GARNKTT  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly. 


THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  Tork 


IMPORTANT  NEW  POETRY 
TWO  NEW  BOOKS  BY  JOHN  MASEFIELD 

Salt  Water  Poems  and  Ballads 

With  twelve  plates  in  color  and  black  and  white  illustrations 
By  CHARLES  PEARS 

£2.00 

It  is  first  of  all  as  a  poet  of  the  sea  that  most  people  think  of  John 
Masefield.  Consequently  the  publication  of  what  may  be  called  a  de 
luxe  edition  of  his  best  salt  water  ballads  and  sea  poems  is  particu- 
larly gratifying.  Here  will  be  found  one  or  two  absolutely  new 
pieces,  new,  that  is,  so  far  as  their  inclusion  in  a  book  is  concerned. 
Among  these  are  "  The  Ship  and  Her  Makers,"  and  "  The  New 
Bedford  Whaler."  Here  also  well-chosen  selections  from  "  Salt 
Water  Ballads,"  from  "  Philip  the  King,"  and  "  The  Story  of  a 
Round  House."  Mr.  Masefield  has  been  extremely  fortunate  in  his 
illustrator.  The  twelve  full-page  illustrations  in  color  and  the 
twenty  in  black  and  white  by  Mr.  Pears  admirably  reflect  the  spirit 
of  the  poet's  lines. 

The  Locked  Chest  and  The  Sweeps 
of  Ninety-Eight 

That  Mr.  Masefield  is  well  grounded  in  the  principles  of  dramatic 
art  has  been  amply  proved  by  the  plays  which  he  has  published 
hitherto  — "The  Faithful,"  "Philip  the  King,"  "The  Tragedy  of 
Pompey"  among  others.  In  this  book  two  further  additions  are 
made  to  a  literature  which  he  has  already  so  greatly  enriched.  In 
the  realm  of  the  one-act  play,  which  it  has  been  maintained  is  a  type 
all  unto  itself,  he  is  seen  to  quite  as  good  effect  as  in  the  longer 
work ;  in  fact  this  volume,  this  first  new  book  from  Masefield  since 
his  American  tour,  may  well  rank  with  his  best. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue          Hew  York 


NEW  MACMILLAN  POETRY 

Fruit  Gathering 

BY  RABINDRANATH  TAGORE 

Author  of  "  Sadhana,"  "  The  King  of  the  Dark  Chamber,"  etc. 


Perhaps  of  all  of  Tagore's  poetry  the  most  popular  volume  is 
"  Gitanjali."  It  was  on  this  work  that  he  was  awarded  the  Nobel 
Prize  in  Literature.  These  facts  lend  special  interest  to  the  an- 
nouncement of  this  book,  which  is  a  sequel  to  that  collection  of 
religious  "  Song  Offerings."  Since  the  issue  of  his  first  book,  some 
four  years  ago,  Tagore  has  rapidly  grown  in  popularity  in  this  coun- 
try, until  now  he  must  be  counted  among  the  most  widely  read  of 
modern  poets.  Another  volume  of  the  merit,  the  originality,  the 
fine  spiritual  feeling  of  "  Gitanjali  "  would  even  further  endear  him 
to  his  thousands  of  American  admirers. 


Califomians 

BY  ROBINSON  JEFFERS 

$1.25 

California  is  now  to  have  its  part  in  the  poetry  revival.  Robinson 
Jeffers  is  a  new  poet,  a  man  whose  name  is  as  yet  unknown  but 
whose  work  is  of  such  outstanding  character  that  once  it  is  read  he 
is  sure  of  acceptance  by  those  who  have  admired  the  writings  of 
such  men  as  John  G.  Neihardt,  Edgar  Lee  Masters,  Edwin  Arling- 
ton Robinson,  and  Thomas  Walsh.  Virtually  all  of  the  poems  in 
this  first  collection  have  their  setting  in  California,  most  of  them  in 
the  Monterey  peninsula,  and  they  realize  the  scenery  of  the  great 
State  with  vividness  and  richness  of  detail.  The  author's  main 
source  of  inspiration  has  been  the  varying  aspects  of  nature 


THE   MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  York 


University  of  California  Library 
Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Phcns  Kenewa  i 
310/825-9188 


MAR  2  7 1997 


?  200? 


4  WK  MAR  07  2002 


REC'DYRL     DEC1 

NOV1    2005 


MAY  Si  4  2005 


)2002 


